FLASH FORWARD
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Who knows what the future holds for us? Who knew what the future held for Steve and Dora? The answer: We don't and they certainly didn't... as their future was arbitrarily and summarily cancelled, leaving us yearning for closure. Which is why it is necessary to invent a selection of futures for them in the world of fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

**FLASH FORWARD**

 _Chapter 1:_ **THE EVOLUTION OF FOLLYFOOT FARM**

 _ **1997 —Steven and Dora Ross have been married twenty-three years. Their four children—Jesse, Julia, Michael and Sarah—are grown and leading their own lives. Follyfoot Farm is about to undergo a radical makeover.**_

 **Jason Stryker's first commission** as a newly chartered architect was the restructuring of a farm property in the heart of Yorkshire—not exactly what he'd envisioned upon graduation from the Manchester School of Architecture, but an intriguing challenge nonetheless... and an offer he couldn't refuse as his personal attachment to that particular property ran too deeply.

Follyfoot Farm belonged to his fiancée's parents, Steve and Dora Ross. Jason himself had been born and lived the first two years of his life at Hollin Hall, the farm's residence. There he'd shared nursery and nannies with Jesse Ross—senior by one month—until his parents, Ron and Hazel Stryker, had moved into a home of their own in town. Although no blood relationship existed between the two couples, they regarded each another as siblings and the children of both families claimed cousinship. Jason Leyland Stryker and Sarah Prudence Ross, childhood sweethearts, became engaged the week he'd obtained his degree.

The estate Dora Ross née Maddocks had inherited in 1974 from her late uncle, Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks, had continued to generate income from tenancies and lease arrangements but the enormous manor house itself had remained vacant for nearly two decades while family solicitors battled government over the crippling inheritance taxes. It was finally agreed that the house and its immediate surrounds would go to the National Trust in lieu of death duties. The remaining acreage of meadow and moorland adjoining Follyfoot Farm to the south and west would be absorbed into the farm holdings. By then the original farm had already been considerably enlarged by acquisitions over time, as they'd become available, of adjacent fields and farmlands to the north and east. Enter the son-in-law-to-be—the newly minted architect and his shiny new sheepskin.

 **To Jason's chagrin the first project** on the agenda was not a new residence but new barns, although he shouldn't have been surprised... the business of the farm had always been and still was providing sanctuary and rehabilitation for abused, neglected, retired or otherwise unwanted horses. Although Jason's education had focused primarily on single- and multi-family dwellings and secondarily on non-agricultural commercial construction, he threw himself into the scheme with alacrity, determined to achieve the most innovative and up-to-date equine stabling complex in Yorkshire if not the entire country. To that end he enlisted as advisor his best mate Ian Doyle, who was close to obtaining his degree in veterinary science.

In early 1998 construction began on two new barns just to the west of the existing structures. The North Barn was designed with an open interior, sectioned off entirely with prefabricated modular stock pens that could be reconfigured as needed. The South Barn had twenty permanent loose boxes, ten along either side of the wide central aisle.

Both barns were uPVC weatherboarded with concrete floors, drains, fluorescent lighting, electric bug zappers, automatic insect repellent misters and water troughs, gas infrared tube heating in the winter and cross-ventilating fans for the summer. A covered riding arena connecting the two barns doubled as a loafing shed. A separate building perpendicular to the west ends of the barns housed hay, feed, tack and farm implements. Electric carts ferried hay and buckets of pre-mixed feed in small trailers to each barn via covered walkways. A garden tractor pulling a larger tilt-bed wagon carried soiled bedding away to a composting area well-removed from either barn. Outside the barns, a series of interlinked paddocks led to the pastures beyond.

The completed structures were considered the epitome of modern domestic livestock housing, attracting the attentions of agricultural, architectural and veterinary students from all corners of the United Kingdom and a number of mainland European countries. Several special interest magazines featured spreads on the barn complex. Jason soon found himself being touted as the premier designer of luxury equine facilities in the region... and commissions started flowing in.

 **In the meantime, Steve and Dora Ross** had carried on their long-standing argument over the fate of Hollin Hall once their offspring had flown the nest—gut and remodel the venerable farmhouse or build anew elsewhere on their property. Even with several mostly cosmetic renovations since the mid-seventies, the rooms were still dark and cramped and the staircase steep, narrow and dangerous. The antiquated plumbing was a nightmare. Electrical wiring was a disaster just waiting to happen—especially in the winter with electric fires blazing away in every room and fuzes popping daily. Air conditioning was non-existent. Mold, mildew and damp were pervasive.

Although acutely aware of the farmhouse's deficiencies, Steve maintained a high-tensile bond to the first real physical home he'd ever known. He wasn't opposed to yet another restoration but actively resisted the idea of building a new house.

Dora was adamant in her desire for a nice 'retirement' home with all mod cons. She deserved one and jolly well meant to have it. Plus, she foresaw mobility issues in the future—Slugger and Dottie, the surrogate parents who lived with them, were now seventy-nine and sixty-nine respectively. While she and Steve were still in their low forties and relatively physically fit, they wouldn't always be.

For every one of her husband's objections Dora had a firm rebuttal. Moreover, this was what _she wanted_... and they could well afford it. She didn't need to add _'and anyway it's my money'_. That bone of contention had lain between them from Day One and always would. _Her inheritance, her money._

Eventually Steve had grudgingly given in. Dora summoned Jason for what was to be the first of many consultations, his mind already brimming with ideas. Within minutes, however, whatever preconceived notions the young architect might have had concerning 'Aunt' Dora's vision of a dream home were swept aside...

 **In 1993 Jesse Ross had gone away to university** in the States, where he'd met and married Anna Yvonne Halvorson and where he now lived with his wife and two young daughters. Yvonne's great-grandfather Gustav had emigrated from Norway in 1900, taking up land in southwestern Montana. There he established a cattle ranch called Telemark after his home county and stocked it with an imported foundation herd of the same name, a hardy red-and-white dual-purpose breed. The operation prospered and in the late 1920s Gustav built a magnificent home in the expectation of fathering a large brood of children. That hadn't happened. Handed down to a succession of _only_ children, the sprawling multi-leveled edifice was situated halfway up a mountain slope graced with clumps of blue spruce, outcroppings of granite, and a sparkling stream that tumbled down the hillside to a pristine lake. The home's expansive windows, decks and terraces commanded a 180° vista of thousands of acres of lush green bottomland.

With the birth of their first grandchild in 1996, Steve and Dora made their first-ever visit to the United States where Dora—herself no stranger to the opulent manor houses of England's landed gentry—immediately fell under the spell of Telemark Lodge. (Yvonne later joked with faked petulance that her mother-in-law was more impressed with the house than with the baby!) Seeing that Dora was so enamored, Yvonne had copies made of the lodge's miraculously preserved original sketches, renderings, elevations and floor plans. Back in Yorkshire, Dora tucked these away for future reference, along with the many photographs she'd taken. She also began keeping a notebook detailing features she wanted in her future dream home.

Presented with Dora's compilation, Jason readily identified the 'mountain vernacular' or 'lodge' style of architecture popular in the Rocky Mountain states of the American Far West. _This_ was what she'd in mind—redesigned on a smaller scale suitable for their less imposing environs. With mounting excitement, Jason realized this could be his entrée to the heady realm of international architectural design. It was all well and good to have a solid reputation as a builder of stables and barns but his ultimate goal was to become designer of choice to the überrich and famous whose spectacularly unique mansions regularly featured in _Architectural Review_. He wouldn't get there churning out affordable but mundane, characterless tract housing... or barns.

As with many nascent schemes, Dora's ever-expanding list of must-haves soon exceeded her admittedly hazy conception of just how large the house would have to be. When she'd brought Jason's first draft to Steve for his perusal, he'd scorned them. "Are you daft? We'd be rattling around like dried beans in a boxcar." She would have much preferred he'd shown some interest in participating in the process... but as he chose not to and said so, that was also the last time she sought his input. Steve continued to express indifference in the matter of the new residence, routinely expressing his opinion that a makeover of Hollin Hall would surely do as well. In the end, comfort and convenience—and, to some extent, necessity—trumped sentimentality.

 **In late August, a drunk driver** failing to yield at a stop sign plowed into Steve's vehicle at an intersection. Although his injuries were not life-threatening, Steve's right leg sustained compound fractures of the tibula and fibula and his knee shattered beyond repair, requiring placement of pins in the broken bones and total knee arthroplasty. The orthopaedic surgeon informed them that although Steve could anticipate a satisfactory recovery, the road to restored health would be an arduous one. He'd be able to ride again—eventually—but most likely would experience difficulties with that leg for the rest of his life.

The surgeon went on to explain that although post-knee replacement physical therapy normally began within days of surgery, in Steve's case it couldn't be undertaken until the fractures and soft tissue damage had healed. They were looking at weeks of immobility followed by many more weeks of therapy, either in a rehabilitation facility or at home with a private nurse and therapist. Steve was insistent about going home and Dora, though terrified at the prospect, reluctantly agreed.

The home health care specialist who met with Dora at Hollin Hall was a kindly but plain-spoken older woman who managed to assuage Dora's fears as she assessed the environmental situation, compiled a list of what would be needed and efficiently made all arrangements. A hospital bed was installed in the dining room that, along with the front entrance, was the only room with double doors permitting passage of a standard wheelchair. A second specialized chair, of the sort used by airlines and designed for narrow aisles, would be needed later for access to any other rooms—such as the bath. At her last visit, when Mrs. Phipps was satisfied that all was in readiness for Steve's discharge from hospital, she suggested that Dora obtain from her own physician a prescription for Prozac as she most assuredly would be needing it. Dora politely declined at first, but—as it turned out—Mrs. Phipps was absolutely right.

 **Steve was not a good patient.** In fact, he was a caregiver's worst nightmare... in turn obstreperous, truculent, morose, belligerent and uncooperative. Male nurses were thin on the ground in those days and the female nurses Dora hired from a reputable agency came and went so frequently that Slugger observed they'd have to install a revolving door. By the end of the second week, everyone's nerves were frayed. Slugger and Dorothy looked on sympathetically as Dora wept into her breakfast tea. In the background Steve could be heard bellowing at the current incumbent. Dot shrugged and commented to her husband, 'If he's still making noise it just means she's not pressing down on the pillow hard enough.'

Dora had to giggle in spite of her misery and mumbled, 'If she doesn't, I will.'

Later that morning Dora answered the telephone to find her close friend Elayne, far away in America, on the other end. 'Heard y'all was goin' through a rough patch, sugarbooger. You just hang tight an' Auntie Elayne'll take care a everythin'. Help's on the way.' It didn't occur to her until after she'd rung off to question how Elayne'd come by that information.

Two days later—just as Dora, Slugger and Dottie were about to sit down to breakfast—a gunmetal gray limo with a discreet British Airways logo on the door purred to a halt in the lane outside the window and a liveried driver hopped out, rushing around to open the door for his passenger. The three piled out the kitchen door to gawk at the apparition unfolding itself from the rear seat... the biggest black man any of them had ever seen, wearing khaki cargo shorts, a gaudily decorated guayabera shirt and rope sandals. The morning sunlight glinted off his shaved head and single gold loop earring.

Apparently answering an earlier question, the big man looked around appreciatively and pronounced in a stentorian voice what sounded like 'Yaz... dis be de place awride... smell dem hosses, you!' His eye fell on the trio eyeing him warily from the stoop and he smiled from ear to ear with big Chiclet teeth, thrusting forward an immense paw in greeting. 'Allo... I be Marcus an' I'se here ta he'p!' A minute sensation of déjà vu swept over Dora as she timidly offered her hand in return. _Here to help?_

 **It transpired that Marcus Demetrius Labasilier,** RN, fresh off the plane from Louisiana, was one of Elayne's myriad cousins—as of yesterday on indefinite leave of absence from his normal occupation as chief physiotherapist at the New Orleans regional veterans hospital. And not to worry, he assured Dora, he was being _very_ generously compensated for his time by his cousin for however long it might take. All they had to do was feed and house him.

Slugger hurriedly scrambled another six eggs and browned an additional pound of bacon and half a dozen sausages while Dottie led Marcus upstairs to show him to his room. There wasn't a doorway that he didn't have to duck to get through. When the current nurse entered the kitchen to fetch Steve's breakfast tray, Dora advised her (to the beleaguered woman's evident relief) that the agency's services would not be required after today's shift. After putting away an astounding quantity of Slugger's cooking and Dottie's homemade bread, butter and jam—with effusive compliments to the chefs—Marcus asked Dora for a brief tour of the farm.

Dora warmed to the big man immediately. As they perambulated he readily answered her questions about his background and qualifications, and seemed genuinely more interested in Steve's state of mind than the nature of the injuries themselves. Rehabilitation was as just as much about mending minds as it was about helping bones and joints, muscles and tendons to regain their facility, he said. Success or failure depended on how quickly and how effectively a patient's rage at his limitations could be redirected into a determination to overcome them. He asserted that he was absolutely inured to the erratic behavior of patients frightened by pain and the prospect of possible lifelong disablement, and that he'd soon have Steve back to his old, pre-accident self.

When suppertime rolled around and the agency nurse had left, Dora took Steve's meal tray to him, introduced Marcus, then prudently withdrew so that they could get acquainted. An hour went by, then another, without the slightest evidence of strife. Other than when sleeping, this was the longest Steve'd gone without complaining since coming home. When Dora poked her head in to check on things, it was to find Marcus explaining the workings of the two-way radios he'd brought with him, so that he could be summoned at any time he was away from his patient.

 **From that day forward the household ran** like clockwork—or as well as it ever had prior to Steve's accident. Marcus became everyone's favorite and they soon became accustomed to his soft Creole French-accented speech. Dora was able to resume normal operation of the farm, secure in the knowledge that her husband was in the gentle giant's capable hands. No one had the temerity to question Marcus' kinship to the blue-eyed, blonde-haired, porcelain-white-skinned Elayne but he volunteered with a chuckle that he was from 'de wrong side o' de bayou'. As weeks passed he became as one of the family and Steve's progress was astonishing. Even the surgeon remarked on it.

Throughout September and October the rest of the family were diligent in keeping the patient distracted when he wasn't, as he put it, being tortured by his minder. Slugger entertained him with outrageous stories from his past and challenged him to zimmer frame races when Steve graduated to one from his wheelchair. Dottie plied him with exotic low-calorie goodies made from her Weight Watchers® recipes. Bride-to-be Sarah kept her daddy apprised of wedding plans. Julia and Michael, away at university, alternated coming home every other weekend to visit. Jesse, with his hugely pregnant wife and their two-year-old daughter, flew in from the States and stayed for a month. Ron and Hazel provided an endless stream of books, magazines and films on VCR. Seeing Steve was entranced with Pallas, the Ross' first grandchild, they made sure their contributions included many children's books that he could read to her.

Jason started coming over every afternoon with the latest sketches and renderings for the new house, which—for lack of any other convenient surface—he spread on the dining room table across the room from Steve's bed. Slowly but surely, Steve was drawn into Jason and Dora's discussions until he finally acknowledged to himself the advisability of being part of the process rather than an impediment. In fact—although he'd rather eat dirt and worms than admit it—he found himself becoming rather excited about it.

Although Marcus had been regularly taking Steve out for short drives ('He need de fresh air, him') and even shorter walks up and down the lane but not the stableyard ('Dem cobbles, dey be dang'rous!'), he knew his charge was desperate to get back on a horse. The day came when Marcus requested to be supplied with two placid beasts incapable of rising above a moderate shuffle. Steve's joyous anticipation was squelched when he caught sight of the two recruits from their stable of ancients: Henry, a lethargic cob with scarred knees, and Dolly, an elderly Percheron displaced by a John Deere tractor. But he decided to make the best of it and ride they did that day, with Marcus' firm grip on Henry's leadline over Steve's objections. Steve lasted fifteen minutes before admitting he needed to get off—his titanium knee was protesting being flexed in this new and painful direction.

 **They rode every day after that,** for longer periods, on into November. The year drew to a close, capped by Jason and Sarah's December fifteenth wedding held in the same chapel in which their parents had married in 1974. Steve was ambulatory enough by then to escort his daughter down the aisle without human or mechanical assistance. Winter'd come early that year and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground... just enough to lend magic to the occasion. Dora suffered agonies of worry in case Steve slipped along the way. However, Marcus stuck to him like a burr, assisting him in and out of the automobile and into the chapel, with Steve grumbling the while and hissing for the big man to leave off, he wasn't an invalid! Yvonne, who had just given birth to the second grandchild—another girl, sent her regrets that she was unable to attend.

The next day, Marcus announced that his work was done, he was satisfied with the results and it was time he went home to his own family. Everyone was astonished to learn, after these many months, that the inscrutable black man was not only married but claimed six grown children of his own plus eleven grandchildren who would be very happy to have their _granpère_ home for Christmas. One last trip to the surgeon's office confirmed that Steve was fully recovered. A going away party for Marcus was organized, during which many tears were shed all around, then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2: THE RISE OF FOLLYMOOR**_

 **A typical lodge is based** on bold open spaces and almost exclusive use of organic elements—native stone and exposed natural wood with generous banks of light-inviting windows. Wherever possible, natural features such as streams, pools, rockscapes and even trees are incorporated into the design. Thematically, the exterior of a lodge-style house is intended to appear as having grown out of the existing topography rather than just having been dropped there.

The landscape surrounding Follyfoot Farm was one of undulating hills and wide expanses of pastures and cultivated fields interspersed with tracts of woodland. The farm itself occupied a shallow depression between gentle folds in the terrain. Directly south of the compound beyond the Ladyfan Lake the ground gradually sloped upwards for a quarter of a mile before leveling off at an expanse of moor-like plateau. Although the incline was nowhere near as dramatic as that on which Telemark Lodge was perched, it was eminently suited for a two- or even three-story construction stepped into the hillside. From that elevated vantage point there would be a grand view northwards across the lake to the farm compound and beyond.

 **In his mind's eye Jason envisioned** and then committed to paper a central structure with two symmetrical wings under steeply pitched roofs. The focal point would be the greatroom with an open-beam cathedral ceiling and solar tinted thermopane windows soaring to the floor above. A staircase along the back wall would rise to a gallery off which opened dual master bedroom suites at either end with two bedrooms in between. Each of the master suites would have a private bath, a fireplace, windowwalls with sliding doors opening to a cantilevered balcony on the north face, and pairs of standard sash windows on the side and south-facing walls. The other two rooms shared a bath and had similar windows flanking French doors opening onto a shared terrace facing south.

Observed from the north-facing aspect, the ground floor of the west wing would contain the kitchen, dining room, laundry room, and a full bath along a corridor leading to an enclosed swimming pool and solarium. An opposing corridor in the east wing would lead past Steve's and Dora's private studies to the attached four-car garage. A common balcony running across the face of the house would be accessed by sliding glass doors in the studies and dining room, as well as the greatroom itself.

At the lowest level, a large central open bay would serve future visiting grandchildren as a bad-weather play area and dormitory. A series of sliding glass panels gave access to a terrace roofed by the balcony overhead. House and pool systems and ample storage and utility rooms would be tucked away at one end and two guest bedrooms with a connecting bath at the other. Solar panels in the roof would augment the geothermal heating and air conditioning system.

 **Jason was allowed wide latitude** in his proposals. When the issue of swimming pool versus solarium arose, he achieved a compromise: a symbiotic combination of the two wherein the heated water of the enclosed pool provided ideal humidity for the tropical plantings that surrounded it on three sides. Solar panels in the translucent dome would produce both heat and light for year-round optimal plant growth and use of the pool. Remotely-operated fans and windows in the plexiglas walls allowed for ventilation and the introduction of outside air during the balmier months.

Jason suggested installing a small lift against the time when an aged family member might become too infirm to negotiate the staircases linking the three floors. He prudently avoided mentioning the two already existing aged family members who would have been offended at the insinuation they were no longer capable of climbing stairs. He made no reference to the possibility of mobility issues in Steve's future. Instead, he cleverly pointed out that a lift would be an invaluable aid to the housekeeping staff in moving their supplies between levels.

Shortly into the new year of 1999, Jason presented a completed set of floor plans, elevations and schematics for final approval but felt obligated to point out that such a house would be at odds with traditional Yorkshire architecture and would be viewed with outrage by the local Preservation Society. There had already been rumblings over the dismantling of the barns. Dora pointed out that its location would be out of sight of casual passers-by, at the end of a very long gated private drive. No ambiance- or atmosphere-seeking tourist need be offended. Besides, she tartly added, it was _their_ land, _their_ home and _their_ business.

 **Once the last of the horses** had been moved to their sumptuous new quarters, controlled demolition of the old barns and stables had begun. Each building had been carefully dismantled, the centuries-old quarried granite blocks sandblasted and stockpiled, as was the natural fieldstone employed in various outbuildings added over the years. The granite was to be incorporated into the façade of the new house and the sandstone would be used to construct the greatroom fireplace. Jason was delighted to find that many of the original timber supports, both hand-hewn and milled, had survived the ravages of time in salvageable condition. These, too, were cleaned, treated with preservatives and set aside under tarps.

Surveyors, hydrologists and environmental experts were summoned, pertinent permits obtained, contractors engaged. An unexpected bonus was the discovery by the chief hydrologist of an artesian spring near the summit of the slope, conveniently near the footings of the swimming pool. It was this crystal clear water source that burbled downwards to feed into the Ladyfan Lake. Although a deep well had already been drilled to provide water to the house, the spring was diverted to supply the pool with the overflow filtered back to its original channel to the lake.

Before construction could begin, a proper paved road had to be laid between the county road and the site in order to facilitate passage of heavy machinery and dump trucks. Other obstacles included the question of what to do with the astounding amount of earth that would have to be removed from the hillside. Jason bartered a deal with an estate developer wherein the man agreed that his vehicles would truck in raw building materials in return for the excavated earth which the developer needed for landfill elsewhere.

Dora and Steve were adamant about ecological responsibility, especially in the preservation of existing trees not actually within the building's footprint, and in as little disturbance as possible of the surrounding terrain. Jason warned that moving at a slower, more careful rate would result in doubling or even tripling the time needed to complete the house. They said they understood but that they were patient, that in the long run methodical progress was preferable to haste.

 **As construction proceeded** and the bones of the house took shape, word got out about the 'American abomination' being built on the Ross' property. In due course a stiffly worded letter of protest arrived from the preservationists, followed by a request for an audience with the perpetrators of this crime against regional heritage. The chief complaint seemed to be that destruction of an irreplaceable historic domicile such as Hollin Hall could not be countenanced.

'Easy for them to say,' Dora sniffed, 'They're not the ones living in the damp and draft!'

Nevertheless, Steve and Dora welcomed the delegation of petitioners and heard them out, sending them home somewhat mollified with assurances that there were no immediate plans to raze the farmhouse. Which was true, the couple having already decided to seek some other use for the building once they moved out.

Finishing touches were applied and the new residence completed in the late fall, twenty-eight years after Dora and Steve had first met on the rundown little farm known as Follyfoot. Working around Sarah and Jason's wedding, Dora somehow found time to attend to the installation of major appliances and furnishings, plus the packing and unpacking of furniture and household goods being brought up from Hollin Hall. The home was everything and more the Rosses had hoped for. On New Year's Eve, 2000—at the turn of the millennium—they celebrated their first night in the house they christened 'Follymoor'.

 **Follymoor was almost as large** as some of the stately old manses in the county that had been intended to accommodate extended upperclass families with numerous children and full complements of live-in servants. The major difference was that although there were _fewer_ rooms, the square footage allotted for each was far more generous.

Midlevel was where the majority of household activity took place. The greatroom with its fieldstone fireplace opened through an arched portal into the dining room, which in turn had two traditional doors—one leading directly into a capacious kitchen area with a breakfast nook and the other to the hallway off which opened doors to a bathroom and a laundry room, numerous utility cupboards and the pool enclosure.

As they'd segued into late middle age, the Rosses had come to appreciate a need for personal space. Dora's bright and airy floral-themed retreat contained a daybed and a plantation rocker with a Tiffany-shaded floor lamp, where she could read or dabble at knitting while listening to music. A sturdy reproduction c1770 New England escritoire held her Macbook® Air™ where, when the muse beckoned, she could tinker with her series of children's stories about Follyfoot, not that she'd ever given serious consideration to someday submitting them for publication. A modest worktable provided a place where she could sew or indulge her fondness for jigsaw puzzles.

Steve's wood-paneled study was tailored to his preferences with fitted shelving for books, awards, framed photographs, photo albums and other mementos of his sixty-plus years that held special meaning for him. An antique Victorian burled walnut double-pedestal kneehole desk sat cattycorner near the window so that he could enjoy the view without having to swivel around the leather-upholstered executive office chair. A small matching sideboard served as a liquor cabinet for Steve's private stock. A top-of-the-line BarcaLounger® occupied the opposite corner with a good reading lamp on a small sturdy table nearby and a comfortable easy chair for the occasional visitor. A flat screen television and Bose® surround-sound stereo system completed the accoutrements.

 **Dora and Sarah had themselves done** all the interior decorating, opting for a modern colorful and cheery atmosphere throughout. As a rule, if it wasn't functional, durable, and/or easy to clean, it had no place in the home. The Colonel's palatial estate had been chockablock with heavy, dark, highly ornamented and extremely valuable furniture, antiques and _objets d'art_ , most of which had gone to the National Trust along with the building. Dora had retained only a few specially favored pieces and these were now brought out of storage to be strategically placed throughout the new home along with the few pieces she wanted to keep from Hollin Hall. She'd then invited the children and their spouses to take their pick of the remaining farmhouse furnishings. The rest had gone to consignment sales.

So that the past glories of the Colonel's mansion and fond memories of Hollin Hall would not be forgotten, Dora had put together a series of photo albums and scrapbooks chronicling the family legacy. It was enough for Dora—and apparently for everyone else in the family—to be able to admire Great-great-grandmother Philippa Maddocks' solid silver tea service for twenty-four without having to polish it. Dora herself rarely looked in the albums—they reminded her too much of her unhappy childhood raised in a class-conscious world amid incredible ostentatiousness… and which she knew was offensive to Steve. Where he'd come from, silver tea services were alien objects from a society beyond his ken.

As expected, the unusual—for that locale—dwelling did in the beginning elicit more than a few negative comments among the staunch keepers of the Old Guard, notwithstanding the fact that most of them had never actually seen it up close. In fact, in order to see it at all—uninvited—one had to go well out of one's way and be in possession of a pair of high-powered binoculars. The stone and natural wood exterior construction blended perfectly into the surrounding terrain as intended and in time the foundation landscaping matured, effectively camouflaging the Ross' home.

 **As years passed, Follyfoot less and less resembled** the decrepit farm Dora Maddocks and Steve Ross had come to as teenagers. The unnamed, unpaved public access road running eastward from Harrogate Road used to split directly north of Follyfoot, with one dirt track heading north to New Laith Farm and the other curving sharply to the south where it skirted Hollin Hall before dwindling to little more than a footpath. The county road had long since been paved, and at the curve a pair of imposing stone gateposts with double wrought-iron gates now prevented unauthorized entry onto the private paved tree-lined drive leading past the east façade of Hollin Hall and up the slope to terminate at Follymoor's parking area and garage.

Just outside the gates a modest car park served both visitors to the Follyfoot Rescue Centre and clients of Ian Doyle's veterinary practice. An interlocking grid of stout chainlink fencing funneled visitors to either the clinic or the North Barn, where keepers ensured that they stayed only in the areas open to public viewing.

Inside the gates to the east of the drive stood Ian and Julia Ross Doyle's private residence, a single-story brick house with an attached office from which Julia handled her husband's bookkeeping and business affairs as well as managing the Ross Family Trust and Follyfoot Farm Trust. Farther along, the next building was Jason and Sarah Ross Stryker's shared studio, accessed from their two-story residence by a covered walkway. Intensive landscaping afforded privacy not only between the two residences but also from Hollin Hall.

Dora and Steve were of course pleased to have both daughters living so close by... literally within walking distance... although this didn't make up for the two sons who had opted to live abroad. Still, as Steve occasionally felt compelled to remind his wife, half a loaf was better than none and they did get to see their boys more often than did most parents whose offspring had migrated to other continents.

The members of this extended family dwelling harmoniously in their pleasant valley enclave had no inkling of the tumult that would soon envelop them.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_ **: THE WAY IT WAS**

 _ **2014 — The Rosses are about to celebrate forty years in double harness—their Ruby Wedding Anniversary. Their children and grandchildren are gathering for the fête. Then... a four decades old conspiracy unravels, a youthful error in judgment is revealed, and a cuckoo is about to be dropped into the family nest.**_

 **Saturday, November 15** **th** **…** In her cushioned chaise longue, Ian Rankin's latest best-selling murder mystery forgotten in her lap, Dora Maddocks Ross was contemplating her upcoming fortieth wedding anniversary and pondering what that really meant... aside from the fact that she'd been married to the same man for four decades. Three-fourths of a lifetime slithering by unnoticed while she was busy living it. A potent little word... _anniversary._.. which to most people represented happy achievements on life's journey and conjured up images of parties. They tended to ignore its other significance: that of loss. Of people you loved, gone now. Of another year of your life, vanished... never to be regained or relived or repaired or re-anythinged.

 _Circle of life..._ another enigmatic phrase that had given her pause as a younger woman: life was a straight line, was it not? You were born, you lived, you died. As a rising senior citizen, however, she'd come to believe her personal destiny—no matter how hard she'd tried to break away from what the fates intended for her—was that she was right back where she started... all because of a simple twist of fate in the classic story of the poor little rich girl.

Was it nature or was it nurture that shaped a child into the adult he or she would become? Students of humanity had been debating that question for centuries. Had Dora been born a misfit into her parents' world of wealth and privilege... or had her upbringing made her so? Either way, she had never measured up to what they—and their society—expected of her. When the latest in a succession of very expensive, highly exclusive boarding schools had regretfully requested she be withdrawn, her beleaguered parents—about to embark on an overseas diplomatic posting—had deposited her with her bachelor uncle, her father's brother, for the duration.

Along with a housekeeper, Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks lived alone in an enormous manor house on a vast estate. Dora didn't mind the prospect of loneliness as she was used to it, having formed only a handful of short-term friendships at each school. Mrs. Porter had let her employer know in no uncertain terms that functioning as governess to a teenage girl was not in her job description, although she was as kind to Dora as her childless nature permitted. Uncle Geoffrey, also solicitous and thoughtful, was unsure as to exactly what his duties as guardian encompassed. Thinking to keep her occupied, and observing that most young girls of his acquaintance seemed to be mad keen on horses, he'd sent her along to have a look at his hobby farm where he kept down-on-their-luck horses.

She went. She looked. She stayed.

 **At the genteelly decaying farmhouse** with the grand title of Hollin Hall, where time had ground to a halt some twenty years or more earlier, Dora found her happy place. No pretentions to keep up, no expectations to fulfill, no silly rules dictating deportment or with whom she was allowed to associate. Best of all... she was needed... she finally had a worthwhile purpose to justify her existence. The farm itself, whimsically named Follyfoot, with its collection of elderly and disabled horses, was overseen by her uncle's retired batman Slugger with the lackadaisical and unreliable assistance during the week of a village lad.

With her uncle's bemused permission, Dora moved into the farmhouse. Slugger kept to the ground floor and slept in a tiny room just off the staircase to the upper floor. On his advice, Dora claimed a second-floor bedroom overlooking the stableyard, not so much for the view as for the fact that being directly above the kitchen it was the warmest room upstairs.

Strangely enough, although she'd never before set foot in a domicile so devoid of amenities, Dora hadn't given a second thought to all the trappings of modern living she'd left behind. At Hollin Hall there was no record player or records and no television, although Slugger's battered bakelite radio set could occasionally be tweaked into bringing in a scratchy station. The only other entertainment arrived once a week in the form of the village newspaper.

Exposed wires, yellowed and crackled with age, were stapled along baseboards and up walls to supply electricity throughout the house. There was a fireplace in every room—if one needed heat, one built a fire in it as the existing wiring would not support electric fires. Cooking was done on a Victorian-era cast iron stove with a voracious appetite for wood or coal, whichever was available. One made toast by impaling a slice of bread on a toasting fork and thrusting it into the oven or holding it over an open eye.

The scullery was a veritable museum of archaic wonders the likes of which Dora had never seen: A belching gas-fired hot water heater that reluctantly trickled water to the scullery sink and the lone lavatory with its rust-stained clawfooted tub. A forbidding compressor unit squatting atop a wheezing vintage refrigerator with its tiny two-tray freezer compartment. The elderly wringer-washer which on laundry day required hot water to be transported via kettle from the stove and frequently buzzed its operator with an electrical shock.

Dora was a far better student of farm living than she'd ever been of finishing school lessons. In short order she learned to cook simple dishes and clean house, shovel manure, keep her fingers out of the washer's mangle, drench a sick horse, darn a sock, peg laundry on a line, distinguish between weeds and nascent vegetables, remove deceased mice from traps, haggle over the price of vegetables... and she was happy... the happiest she'd ever been in her life.

 **But life progresses...** As in all good fairy tales, the Princess met her Prince, they fell in love, got married, had children. Little by little improvements came to Hollin Hall... a minor remodel here, a major overhaul there, new—then newer—kitchen appliances, a television, a microwave oven, cordless telephones, her own automobile. Slowly, inexorably, the Rosses mobilized upward without even realizing it was happening.

Sure, they'd lived through some lean times—but only a few years' worth, and they'd never faced devastating poverty. And now, here she was... forty years later... once again surrounded by luxuries and enjoying a standard of living not just equal to but far superior to that on which she'd turned her back so long ago. She had not only an _estate_ but _staff_ to run it (these days one didn't refer to them as servants but by any other names they were still cooks, maids, groundskeepers, grooms). It had been almost embarrassingly effortless to reassume the upperclass status into which she'd been born. Easy for her, not so easy for Steve, she suspected.

Again... that nature versus nurture argument... did the lifestyle to which her husband had become accustomed totally negate the desperation of his formative years? She thought not, but she wasn't—had never been—privy to his innermost feelings on that subject. At first she'd been terribly hurt by his stubborn refusal to share that portion of his history. _'You wouldn't understand.'_ Lovers were supposed to share _everything_ , weren't they?—one of the many erroneous beliefs of the young and inexperienced. For years she'd nursed resentment, not always successfully concealed, about those closed chapters.

Older and wiser now, Dora accepted that the men of their post-war generation were indelibly conditioned to suppress so-called _unmanly_ expressions of emotion. Whereas a combat veteran might freely discourse on the horrors of his personal experiences with those who'd shared them, it would be unthinkable for him to exhume long-buried childhood traumas and expose them to public dissection. Steve had been in care one way or another from age four to sixteen. Dora knew that somewhere there existed documentation of his life before she met him—psychiatric evaluations, progress reports, arrest records and such—but those records had been sealed when he turned eighteen. At the time Steve had come to Follyfoot, she had been aware of the one conviction and the concomitant prison sentence, as that was common knowledge. Most of whatever she had learned of his previous life had been gleaned in fragments from other people who had either known him or of him before 1971.

 **While reminiscing Dora had at the same time** been keeping an eye on the two little red-haired girls frolicking in the shallow end of the swimming pool while their older sister did laps at the deeper end, as far away as possible from the 'babies'. Every now and then one of the little ones would shout 'Hey GranDora... watch this!'

The weather station mounted by the door to the enclosure indicated an outside air temperature of eight degrees on this mid-afternoon in November. Inside the enclosure—regulated by a high-efficiency climate control unit—it was an almost tropical twenty-two degrees. Dora tried to get in a short swim every day for the sake of exercise and so had been in earlier. She would have gone riding today had she not volunteered to mind her granddaughters. As much as she loved having the children and grandchildren visit, it did tend to interfere with her and Steve's customary mid-morning or early evening private times—just the two of them and their horses, as they'd been doing since long before they were wed. And anyway, it wouldn't have been just the two of them today. She brushed aside that tiny annoyance.

All three children were excellent swimmers and Dora didn't need to worry when occasionally Susie or Ali would paddle to the forbidden deep end, gliding under the rope like an otter, and back again in the smug belief that grandmother hadn't noticed. Generally they were very good girls, even though she periodically had to remind them that running on the pool deck was not permitted. And despite her affectation of indifference and superiority, thirteen-year-old Annie considered it her duty to monitor her much younger siblings—grandmother being rather elderly, you see, and not fit enough to be chasing after small active children.

The grey-muzzled golden retriever slumbering by the lounger suddenly picked up her head and cocked her ears in the direction of the drive. Dora craned her neck around to observe a decrepit Range Rover chugging toward the parking area. The Strykers could well afford a decent vehicle but Sarah insisted on hanging onto that eyesore, proclaiming it a genuine family heirloom. All four children and Dora herself had learned to drive on the cranky old beast. Granted, all its moving parts including the engine had been replaced many times over but the rusted exterior remained as scrofulous as ever, despite repeated attempts to paint over.

Two curly carrottops rotated as one toward the door as, a few minutes later, Sarah herself entered the enclosure. A small marmalade cat darted past her ankles, making for the enticingly friable soil of the nearest planter box. Sarah deftly scooped it up and deposited it back on the other side of the door, where it yowled piteously.

" **Mum, Mum! Mummeeeeee!"** the two little girls chorused. "Come and play with us!"

"Sorry, girls. It's almost time to go home." Dora's younger daughter gracefully decanted herself into the adjacent lounger and stretched out her long legs, crossing them neatly at the ankles.

"Thanks for watching them, Mum. I really needed that time-out. I know that Nanny Betsy deserves her holidays but sometimes it's all I can do to deal with them on my own."

"I understand completely, darling... no need for thanks... they haven't been a bit of trouble."

"Lucky you then. I'm just hoping they behave for Aunt Callie tomorrow."

"I'm sure Callie can manage. She's dealt with whole classrooms full of children for thirty-five years."

"I know. Still, it's very generous of her to keep them on a Sunday so we can have a girls' day out. And I sweet-talked Jason into giving me _carte blanche_ to buy whatever I want... or should I say _carte d'or?"_ Sarah punned.

 **Mother and daughter grinned at each other,** knowing it took nothing more than a provocative smile to get cooperation from Jason on any venture involving his wife and daughters. At thirty-five years of age, Sarah Ross Stryker was the glamour girl of the family—elegant and stylish, always cool and unruffled. Her flame-haired husband was rakishly good-looking; women flocked to him as bees to blossoms and he always responded with charm oozing from his pores. But he remained thoroughly pinioned under Sarah's thumb. He knew it and she knew it.

Annie appeared in front of them, copper hair streaming down her back. "Couldn't I go with you... please? I'm too old for a babysitter... and Mum, anyway you promised you'd take me shopping for..." She lowered her voice and dramatically whispered, "... a _real_ bra."

Dora regarded her granddaughter critically. Over the summer the child had shot up like a weed and was at that formless pre-adolescent stage between the loss of childish roundness and the aquisition of womanly curves. An actual necessity for bust support was as yet debatable, but Dora understood the real reason behind the girl's plea—her American cousins would be arriving soon and she was desperate to be accepted as a peer by the older teenagers.

"I think that would be a grand idea... that is, if your mother agrees..." Dora spoke up.

" _Please_ , Mummy... _please?!"_

"Oh all right, if Grandmother doesn't mind..."

"I could do with some new knickers as well," Dora reasoned, "and there's a La Senza at Victoria Shopping Centre... we'll start there and perhaps have our tea at Brasserie Forty Four if we finish up early enough."

"Oh _thankyou_ , Mum... GranDora!" A beaming Anna Elizabeth Stryker returned to the water, flouncing the ruffles at the bottom of her obviously outgrown little girl's swimsuit.

" **The boys haven't returned yet?"** Sarah asked, referring to her father Steve, her husband Jason and her father-in-law 'Uncle' Ron, her elder brother Jesse, her twin brother Michael and his partner Trini, and her brother-in-law Ian.

"Haven't seen them, but the sun will be down soon so they should be on their way back," Dora replied.

"Is everything on track for the party?"

"I hope so! There's rain forecast for this week but the next one looks good."

"The girls are excited about seeing their cousins and isn't it fortuitous their autumn hols coincide with ours? They'll have a whole week together! When are they flying in, by the way?"

"Next Saturday, I believe."

"Has Jesse said why he came earlier instead of traveling with his family?" Sarah asked, curious.

Dora shrugged. "I asked but he was vague about it. Something about not finding enough available seats in a block and so on. It's their Thanksgiving holiday week, you know. Apparently that's the busiest time of the year for air travel in the States."

"Jesse seems worried about something," Sarah reflected. "I mean, he's never exactly been a barrel of laughs... too much like Daddy... but he... that is, he almost seems _unhappy_ to be here, hadn't you noticed?"

"No, I hadn't," Dora fibbed smoothly. Of course she had—but she was biding her time, waiting for her elder son to come to her with whatever was troubling him. Abruptly she changed the subject.

"Now that you're back I'd best go inside and check on dinner." She got up and threw on her terry wrap before heading toward the door with Emma the retriever at heel. "You and Jason and the girls are welcome to stay if you like."

"Thanks, but no. We've promised to take them out for pizza and frozen yoghurt this evening and then I suppose I'll have to sit and watch 'Little Mermaid' or 'Frozen' with Susie and Ali... again!.. while Jason plays computer games with Annie. Gah! I'll be so glad when Nanny gets back from holiday! However did you manage when we were little?!"

 **Dora didn't answer the rhetorical question** as she exited the poolhouse, stifling a laugh. _How indeed?_ She'd been only twenty-one when Jesse was born, and had known next to nothing about babies, which was more than her own mother could claim... her cold, self-serving, disdainful mother who employed other people to raise her only child. And Steve's mother had been worse than useless, having simply abandoned hers.

It had been Dora's surrogate mother Dorothy who had guided her through the trials and tribulations of first-time motherhood. Dorothy had also taught her that it was not the parents' obligation to oversee and entertain their offspring every waking moment of every day; that children needed a measure of freedom to make their own discoveries; that they should be taught to respect that Mum and Dad had interests that did not revolve around them. Dora had recently come across the phrase, 'helicopter mom,' which to her way of thinking exactly described Sarah's incessant hovering over her sprouts... always on the trot to classes and activities of every type and description and rarely allowing them unstructured time to do what _they_ wanted to do. But, as Dora reminded herself, they were not _her_ children to rear... Sarah would find out soon enough that too much cosseting inevitably breeds rebellion and a rage for freedom.

 **THE BEST-LAID SPELLS GANG AFT AGLEY**

 **At the stroke of midnight** deep within a secret cave at an undisclosed location in the Bitterroot Mountains in the State of Montana, USA, the regular monthly convocation of _La_ S _ociété Internationale Antique et Honorable des Sorcières Blanches, P.A._ (Kalispell Chapter) was coming to order under the gavel of Madame President Marie-Madelaine Camerata. In attendance were sixty-six members in good standing, without exception all connected by either blood or marriage to the Passepartout/Camerata clans and/or the Osprey band of Western Shoshone Métis. Twenty-seven of these were under the age of thirty. Thirty-seven were board-certified and licensed practicing witches, fourteen were interns, nine were novitiates, and six were postulants. One was present in an honorary and non-voting capacity. All of them were named Marie-something or something-Marie.

Known only to the denizens of the Otherworld, the multi-chambered Crystal Caverns Convention and Conference Center, operating 24/7, offered facilities for any size or variety of function from small meeting rooms to banquet halls at very reasonable fees (catering, decorating and entertainment at extra charge). Despite—or perhaps because of—its relative inaccessibility (no paved roads) to the world of Normals, it was a popular venue for certain segments of society who preferred privacy for their meetings, fêtes and other special occasions. Within living (or, in some cases, non-living) memory, it had always been a ship very tightly run under General Manager Cuthbert the Curmudgeonly, an incredibly ancient sorcerer of shadowy origins who claimed direct descendancy from Merlin the Magnificent himself. Since 1803, when the first Europeans had started trickling in to displace the natives, the Kalispell coven had maintained standing reservations for every third Saturday of the month.

The crystal-encrusted walls of the capacious central chamber (the 'Hall of Prisms') reflected rainbows from the glow of hundreds of white candles onto the white robes of the attendees. Despite occasional drifts of revelry wafting up the corridor from other festivities in progress in ancillary meeting rooms, in the hall of witches dignity prevailed and business as usual was transacted—news disseminated, current affairs discussed, complaints adjudicated, suggestions taken, resolutions passed, committees formed, chairpersons appointed and announcements made. The President cleared her throat and addressed the gathering.

" **If we have no further business,** at this time I would like to bring forward our special guests, Past President and current Rocky Mountain States Regional Director Marie-Solánge Passepartout Camerata and Global President Emeritus Marie-Elayna Passepartout Calhoun." The President paused as the two women approached the lectern. The polite smattering of applause died down as the Regional Director took the microphone.

"Good morning, Sisters. Our society's practices and policies have always been in flux over the centuries as we seek ever to adapt our unique abilities to evolving civilizations, cultural trends and emerging technologies. Religion—traditionally and historically our greatest challenge and impediment to progress over two millennia—has been superseded by the digital revolution that began in the late 1970s.

We are now solidly in the 'Information Age', in which the formerly distinct line between the possible and the impossible has become blurred. Knowledge that used to be solely the domain of Others such as ourselves is now readily available to Normals. Such scientific advances as global surveillance via satellite and instant information access via the Internet threaten to render obsolete our way of life. Covert operations have become increasingly difficult, with the result—not necessarily disadvantageous—that many orders have found it expedient to come out of the closet, so to speak, and go public. Not surprisingly, mainstream Normal society for the most part has taken these revelations in stride and, so far as we're aware, there have been no reprisals. We attribute this to the fact that, as global knowledge and consciousness expands exponentially, the majority of Normals today are far more educated and sophisticated than were their counterparts of a hundred years ago. The mystical and the magical are fast losing the fascination and respect they once had. Also, advances in the field of noetic science are contributing to the eventual demise of the mysticism which has cloaked and protected our world since the fifth century.

We've come a long way from bedknobs and broomsticks, sisters. We must revolutionize our approach to witchcraft if we are to survive and flourish in this new world!"

 **Sixty-four pairs of hands applauded** in support, the younger women rolling eyes at one another. Broomsticks and bedknobs indeed! What was all that about? They'd cut their teeth on mousepads and few of them owned a broom (they favored Swiffer® WetJets™). And unless KitchenAid® and Cuisinart® had started manufacturing iron cauldrons, there wasn't a one to be found in any of their kitchens. Most of them had long ago digitized their grimoires (handed down from mother to daughter) and downloaded them to laptops and e-readers. As for familiars... well, it wasn't at all practical to maintain a live one in an office or classroom environment (and many species were all but impossible to housebreak), so the obvious answer was to park a virtual representative in one's smartphone or personal data device. The younger witches feigned rapt attention out of respect for their elders but each was resigned to the prospect of a lengthy and boring dissertation on the good old days.

Sister Marie-Solánge concluded her mercifully short speech on relational metaphysics and the evolution of witchcraft, yielding the podium back to Sister Marie-Madelaine.

"As is our custom of ending each meeting with an educational topic, we will now hear from Sister Marie-Elayna, with an illustration of craft malfunction... or... how the best laid spells can go awry."

The Global President Emeritus stepped forward and paused until the audience had settled and refocused its attention.

"Any endeavor involving manipulation of behavior in the world of the Normals—particularly where affairs of the heart are concerned—is fraught with peril and should be undertaken with the greatest caution and deliberation. Normals are exceedingly arbitrary creatures and one can never be certain of obtaining the desired result. Sister Marie-Solánge and I can attest to this because meddle we did—with the best of intentions. As some of our older sisters may recall, some forty-one years ago I was blessed with a vision in which it was prophesied that the destiny of one of _our_ children was to be united with one of _theirs_... and for almost four decades it appeared that the prophecy was moving steadily on track toward fulfillment. Then a second vision revealed an anomaly in the time-space continuum that would irreparably alter the futures of both families were it not immediately rectified..."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_ **• ALL IN THE FAMILY**

 **Upstairs in her bedroom suite,** Dora dressed in charcoal gray wool slacks and a silvery light gray cashmere jumper. Combing out her hair and applying a skim of sheer lip gloss and a modest swipe of mascara, she chuckled in remembrance of her girlhood years when she wouldn't—under any circumstance—appear outside her boudoir without full warpaint. How styles had changed! She hadn't really needed makeup then, nor did she need it now although she took great care to keep wrinkles at bay with a variety of high-end skin care products.

Checking herself one last time in the mirror, Dora wondered at what point she'd morphed from 'a lovely young girl' to 'a handsome woman of a certain age.' She'd been fortunate enough to have started out with a number of favorable physical attributes... good hair and blemish-free complexion, a comely figure and a pretty face... and even more fortunate to have retained them into her sixties. Still, age was age and it took a lot more maintenance these days, attention to diet and exercise and so on, than it used to. Thanks to a skillful hairdresser, her hair—now a light honey brown with understated highlights—was layered in a flattering short style requiring a minimum of fuss.

Descending the staircase, Dora heard shrill voices echoing from the bathroom down the hall where Sarah, with Annie's assistance, was bundling the two little ones into trainers, fleece bottoms and hoodies for the short drive home. After collecting goodbye kisses from all four, Dora detoured to the kitchen where dinner preparations were well underway and Miz Bee assured her that her assistance was neither needed nor wanted.

Mrs. Martha Barton's usual hours were from seven in the morning until seven in the evening four days a week. On the other three days, her sister-in-law Miss Vera Barton presided over the kitchen, same hours. The widow and spinster shared a home in Tockwith. Gone were the days of the live-in cook with only a half-day off, and job-sharing was an equitable arrangement for both employer and employees. The younger generation had long ago arrived at a simple expedient to avoid confusion of address by referring to both ladies as 'Miz Bee'. Both ladies were also responsible for housekeeping oversight although a professional cleaning crew came in from town once a week.

Reliable domestic help was hard to come by and an efficient housekeeper who also happened to be a genuinely talented cook was a pearl beyond price. Dorothy'd been such a one back in her day and—twenty years ago—had handpicked Martha as her successor, who in turn had recruited Vera. Dora well knew the value of her housekeeping duo and ensured they were kept happy in their work... which also kept them safe from being poached by unscrupulous neighbors. Next weekend would be bedlam, with the house packed to the rafters and meals having to be served in shifts. Over both Miz Bee's objections that they were up to the task, no additional help needed, Dora had decided to add two maids from the temp agency.

 **Dora poured herself a goblet** of Leventhorpe Seyval Blanc and made her way to the greatroom, Emma dutifully following, to enjoy a few precious solitary moments of contemplation over the weekend to come—when the entire family would be assembled to celebrate her and Steve's fortieth wedding anniversary.

She kicked off her shoes and curled up in one of the plush armchairs that faced outward through the plate glass windows. Sunset was imminent and the glowing orb cast long shadows and a golden glow over the remnants of autumn foliage in the valley. A stiff wind swirled gusts of leaves against the glass. In the distance, the small figures of the old men who looked after the horses could be seen bringing them into the barns for the night. Seven riders in single file emerged from the triangular copse of trees that sheltered Spirit Pond, crossing over the drive toward the South Barn.

The men would take their time putting up their horses and tack although there was no shortage of stablehands who would've happily done that for them. Only four would be walking up the hill to dinner. Ron'd already indicated he'd be going home to Hazel, Jason and Sarah'd be off with their brood, and Julia'd mentioned earlier that she and Ian were dining out also.

Now that her menfolk were safely returned home, Dora could allow her thoughts to drift. As always, they went first to her children and how wonderful it was that all four of them had inherited their parents' passion for horses as well as their fierce protectiveness toward all creatures in need of rescue from abuse and neglect. They contributed heavily to shelters and animal welfare charitable organizations and were vocal proponents of animal rights. Their homes overflowed with cats and dogs and other pets, in most cases other peoples' castoffs. Michael and Trini were staunch vegetarians. Others in the family still consumed meats but did their best to ensure that their purchases in no way contributed to factory farming.

 **All were here now except for Jesse's wife Yvonne** and their four stairstep daughters who'd be joining them at the end of the week. The 'Peas'—collectively, the 'Peapod'—had been fancifully named by their mythology-loving mother: Pallas Athena, Phaedra Ariadne, Perdita Selene and Pandora Titania. Within their circle of family and friends the three younger ones—now sixteen, fourteen and twelve—were known as Faye, DeeDee and Tania. Pallas—the oldest at eighteen—had resolutely clung to her first name in its entirety, from babyhood having refused to respond to any shortened version.

Dora and Steve's firstborn, Jesse, pushing forty, had arrived yesterday from his home in Montana in the States. In the face of his father's opposition and lacking his financial support, Jesse'd nonetheless stubbornly set his sights on a future in computer technology. At age seventeen he'd cobbled together a patchwork of grants, loans and scholarships in order to attend the University of California-Los Angeles, where he met and subsequently married Yvonne Halvorson, an agricultural management student. Despite producing their first child the following year, both managed to complete their educations and obtain degrees. Jesse had gone into software development. A decade later his own extremely profitable company allowed him to work from home on the enormous ranch his wife had inherited from her father and continued to operate.

The elder Rosses had been most unhappy at first with Jesse's decision to remain in America but mollified when it was made clear that the young couple had every intention of making flying visits several times a year with their growing family... and had the wherewithal to do so. Vonda was down-to-earth and extremely funny, kind and courteous to her inlaws and not a whit pretentious or overbearing. She spoke with what her inlaws regarded as a 'cowboy' drawl that had slowly insinuated its way into Jesse's speech, so that his plummy Yorkshire accent had all but disappeared.

 **Julia, the second child,** was her father all over again... temperamental, cynical and intense... but an astute business manager. It was thirty-seven-year-old Julia whose gimlet eye and corporate accountant's acumen kept the family's finances in impeccable order. When Jules made decisions and issued orders, people responded without resistance simply due to the force of her personality. Dora suspected that when Julia'd decided it was time to marry at age thirty, she'd gone about the process as methodically as choosing a new hunter at Tattersall's... checking bloodlines and points, breeding potential, tractability, appearance. In the end, she'd trained her sights on 'the boy next door' whom she'd known all her life and gone all through school with... the self-proclaimed confirmed bachelor veterinarian who still lived with his parents on the farm down the road. Ian Donal Doyle'd been selected, wedded, bedded and set up in his own practice before he knew what hit him. But the laconic vet was as laid back as his bride was tempestuous and they seemed happy enough—although a battery of tests had revealed that Julia would never be able to carry a child to term after several devastating miscarriages.

Although nowadays there were far more horses kept for pleasure or sport than for work, and pit ponies were a thing of the past, there was still a pressing need for homes for unwanted horses and Dora took great pride in the fact that she and Steve had managed to keep their rescue operation—Follyfoot Farm—operating decades after others had predicted failure. She was confident that as long as Julia remained in charge of financial resources, with the support of her siblings, the venture would continue to survive and thrive long after Steve and Dora were gone.

The Rosses had been quite satisfied with their little family of four and hadn't intended to have more children but accidents will happen—the Pill is not infallible, after all—and in early 1979 the Rosses welcomed twins... a boy and a girl they named Michael and Sarah.

 **Michael was the tallest** and most gregarious of the four Ross children. He was also drop-dead gorgeous, or so Dora had overheard him described. A dreadful American socialite had once commented in her hearing, 'He's so yummy I could just eat him right up with a spoon,' while Dora thought, 'No spoon for you, you silly cow!'

Michael Ross and his long-time partner, sculptor Trinidad Omari Roussel, had met in their first year of art school at the Sorbonne and had been together ever since. Both young men were established artists, their works commanding phenomenal prices. Even Steve, who'd at first been dismissive of Michael's ambition to become a working artist, had to admit the boy had done quite well indeed.

It'd been Sarah who'd finally taken the initiative to explain to her clueless parents the true nature of her twin's relationship with the exotic Barbadian. Their initial mortification had gradually subsided after subsequent visits to Michael and Trini's home base in coastal Provence. Any lingering reservations had vanished after two weeks spent in the company of Trini's large boisterous family on the north coast of Barbados, where his French expat father Jean-Luc owned and operated a shabby chic beachside hotel along with his native wife Aimee—a self-styled 'backcountry colored girl.'

 **Rather than pursuing university studies,** Sarah'd opted for interior design school and had received certification just prior to completion of Follymoor and her marriage to Jason Stryker. Anna Elizabeth arrived in 2001. In the six year interval between her birth and that of Susan Stephanie, Sarah'd established herself as a highly recommended advisor on home and office interiors, in conjunction with her husband's thriving architectural design business. Alison Marie's appearance in 2010 was unplanned and Sarah'd been forced to cut back on her workload, but managed to keep her hand in and her name to the forefront.

 **In the space of just a few minutes,** the sun was sinking below the distant hills and twilight settling gently onto the land. The sodium vapor security lights spaced along the drive came on and on either side of them glimmerings of lights in windows—downstairs at Hollin Hall where the old men were gathering for their evening repast; across the way where Julia and Ian were probably dressing to go out; and beyond that to Sarah and Jason's home. Dora sipped her wine and waited for her men to come up the hill.

 **EVERYONE MAKES MISTAKES**

" _ **Four years ago," the speaker continued,**_ "Sister Marie-Solánge and I embarked on a mission to correct this anomaly. We sent an emissary thirty-six years back in time to guide back together a pair of young Normal lovers who had been steadily drifting apart. Successful fulfillment of the prophecy depended upon their marrying and producing children and grandchildren."

 _Hello! What's this?_ Tales of romance being always near and dear to tender young female hearts, witchy or otherwise, twenty-seven pairs of ears perked up in the Crystal Cavern. Only a few of the younger women remembered Charles and Diana. Most of them had avidly followed the antics of Brangelina and other celebrity couples. The storybook wedding of Prince William and Kate had occasioned wild anticipation and celebration. A few were fixated on the current paparazzi-fueled relationship between an 'American Idol' teen superstar and an anorexic almost-over-the-hill (about to turn twenty-one) diva from 'Project Runway.'

"The emissary—not one of us but an Other nonetheless—was chosen chiefly because his loyalty could be assured and he was specifically suited to address the issue. The mission was completed successfully with just the tiniest bit of craft involvement to help it along.

"To minimize confusion and forestall any future ruminations on the part of the Normals as to the extent and nature of our involvement, we took it upon ourselves to place a memory-blocking spell on the parties involved—magic insurance, if you will. In retrospect this was perhaps not the wisest move we could've made. We were assured the charm was durable... and it worked admirably for four decades... but now it is failing and complications have set in which we must address.

"Sister Marie-Solánge and I propose to retrace our steps to the scene of the original mission to see what must be done to remedy the situation. Our intent is to put the best possible spin on it while containing whatever damages might... let me rephrase that... whatever damages _most certainly_ will accrue.

"There's more: Had we been more diligent in our research we would've discovered a _pre-existing_ relationship—or one which would _come_ to exist—between our family and this family of Normals in which certain legal, moral and ethical considerations should've been examined before we undertook our original mission. This factor pre-dated and evolved independently of our affairs and was in fact completely unknown to us at the time. It is, however, directly related to and exacerbates the current problem.

"A second influential factor is attributable to the rise, as previously mentioned, of global communications and the Internet: Personal background information which _should_ have remained private and undisclosed to both families has recently become public. When disseminated, this information will be distressing in the extreme to certain parties. I now open the floor to questions..."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5:**_ **WHEN RECOLLECTION COLLIDES WITH REALITY**

 **Sunday, November 16** **th** **…** Shortly after breakfast, Dora'd retired to her sitting room with the intent of going over her various lists of preparations for the upcoming fête. She was fairly sure everything was in order although it never hurt to double- or even triple-check. Normally she and Steve would've been out on their morning ride but they'd recognized and accepted that, in view of circumstances, disruptions in routine were inevitable.

The planned shopping expedition would not get underway until after lunch, which was still hours away. Dora tried to apply herself to the task at hand and a memory nudged its way into her conscious mind: Herself and Steve, in the early days so many years ago, sitting side by side at her uncle's big desk in his study at Hollin Hall—sifting through the receipts and invoices Slugger kept in an old cigar box, penciling entries in the big green ledger… neither one of them with any business or bookkeeping experience. What money there was they kept in a biscuit tin in an unlocked drawer, with everyone on his or her honor to withdraw only what was needed for necessary purchases, and to return change to the tin and receipts to the cigar box.

And of course one memory led to another and another, as memories will. Chiding herself for her inability to concentrate, Dora nonetheless abandoned any pretense of studying her lists, swiveling her chair away from the desk and toward the plate glass window, seeing not the modernized farm complex of today but the way it used to be...

 **Dora's remembrances took her back** to 1971 when she and Steve'd first met after she'd come to live on her uncle's estate. She'd been three months away from her eighteenth birthday and Steve almost nineteen. It may not've been love at first sight but there was an immediate attraction that endured and deepened as weeks and months rolled by. At the end of her second year at Follyfoot, she'd known beyond doubt that Steve was the only man for her. And she was reasonably sure the feeling was reciprocated. But there'd been such a gaping chasm between them, the differences in their respective stations and attitudes... and neither could find a way to bridge the gap.

Dora'd never considered herself 'posh'. Nevertheless, she was the product of an upper middle class upbringing and all too conscious of her parents' social standing. And even though she'd for all practical purposes become estranged from them, she would never—at least, not then—have defied them or invited their outrage by openly taking up with a man of no social standing at all, not to mention one with a prison record. Then there'd been Steve himself—poor but proud, defensive of his lowly origins and simply incapable of accepting what he perceived as charity. Added to that was a legacy of physical and emotional abandonment as a child in foster care (although she'd been unaware of that at the time). He'd schooled himself to maintain a distance from everyone, including Dora—especially Dora—no matter what kind attentions were turned his way.

Fate had conspired to land Dora in increasingly comfortable financial circumstances. First her Uncle Geoffrey—her father's older brother under whose guardianship she'd been living—presented her with ownership of Follyfoot Farm. Later, she'd come into a substantial inheritance from her paternal grandmother. Then upon her uncle's demise she'd been designated sole beneficiary of the income from his investments and of a trust designed to maintain the estate including manor house and grounds—to the great dismay of her parents who'd expected to expected to inherit _everything_. Her mother had, in fact, harangued Arthur Maddocks into bringing suit against the estate to have the will declared invalid on the grounds of mental incompetence on the part of his brother and Dora's youth and inexperience. This blatant attempt to wrench Dora's inheritance away from her had eventually come to naught, completely severing whatever tenuous filial relationship remained between daughter and parents.

 **The very fact of Dora** having become modestly wealthy in her own right and thus able to preserve the fortunes of Hollin Hall and Follyfoot Farm was, ironically, what almost drove Steve away. As wasn't at all unusual back then, he'd had great difficulty with the idea of being subordinate to a female. Quarrels over management issues continued unabated and they'd clashed over and over about the most productive way of running the farm.

It'd all come to a head the week prior to her twenty-first birthday in September 1974. Odd, how selective memory can be—some things can be recalled with crystal clarity as if they'd occurred only yesterday, while others are so indistinct, so nebulous, that one begins to doubt they ever really happened. So it was with that particular week. It'd been a time of turmoil—heartbreak and anger, love and sorrow, a whirlwind of new experiences—but after four decades the specifics eluded her. She couldn't remember anything at all that'd happened other than, at the end, a completely unanticipated marriage proposal. For some reason she and Steve'd never discussed the events of that week. Neither'd anyone else who'd been involved at the time, which included among the yet living Ron, Hazel, Dorothy and Dora's closest confidante, Elayne. It was as if that week'd never happened.

Ron Stryker and Hazel Donnelly's wedding was celebrated exactly one month following Steve and Dora's, as soon as Hazel's 'condition' became evident—a 'condition' only four weeks younger than Dora's own, as it turned out. The four of them had been living in the farmhouse under the gentle guidance of their _de facto_ surrogate parents: Edward 'Slugger' Jones, retired boxer and former batman to Dora's uncle, and Dorothy 'Dottie' Doyle, their housekeeper. There hadn't been any pressing need for either couple to establish their own household elsewhere—Steve and Ron were both enrolled at the local community college—so the two couples had continued living at Follyfoot for some time after their sons were born.

The two infants, the Ross' Jesse and the Stryker's Jason, shared the nursery created from Ron's former bedroom. Their nanny, a cheerful Swedish girl who spoke broken English, had Steve's former bedroom next door. After an appropriate courtship period, Slugger and Dottie'd married the following summer and occupied Slugger's former bachelor quarters downstairs, with Dottie insisting on maintaining her role as chief cook and housekeeper.

 **The old stone farmhouse at Follyfoot** was literally overflowing. While everyone got along tolerably well, there was no denying its occupancy limits'd been reached. A decision had to be made—especially when the children began crawling, then walking and running, and the two young mothers once again found themselves pregnant. But before they could address the painful issue of splitting the families, fate conveniently intervened.

In early 1977 Ron's father passed away, predeceased by his odious second wife with whom Ron'd never got on. Ron and Hazel and their son had then moved into his father's house in town and he'd taken over the old man's lucrative automotive sales and parts businesses. They'd produced five children—three sons and two daughters… all married now with children of their own, a round dozen altogether, of which three were also Ross grandkids... Jason and Sarah's. A long time ago someone—Ron didn't remember who—had told him redheads were a vanishing minority and that it was his duty to replenish the gene pool. He frequently cracked 'So I seen my duty and I done it!' Every single Stryker offshoot possessed red hair in every shade from strawberry blonde to deep auburn. Another thing he liked to brag about was the grandchild count—his twelve to Steve's seven, even though three of his were Steve's as well. 'Only thing I ever beat him at!'

 **The horse training enterprise** Steve and Dora'd hoped to establish had never achieved a sustainable level, what with his becoming a full-time university student and her becoming a full-time mother. Dora'd remained acutely aware of Steve's unabated resentment, seething beneath the surface, at being dependent on his wife's money. But, she'd accurately foreseen that in the end he would of his own accord come to an acceptance and had tried her utmost to be patient with him until then.

After obtaining his degree in business management Steve'd signed on with a multinational corporation at a lucrative salary and with the honorable if impractical intention of supporting his family on his income alone. In the meantime, Dora, now mother of four, was quietly arranging their future with the aid of her financial advisors and solicitors. By the time Steve—thoroughly discouraged and disgusted with the corporate rat race—threw in the towel, dual managing directorships of the Follyfoot Charitable Trust and the Maddocks-Ross-Stryker Family Trust awaited him. It was a very long shot, Dora knew, but it worked. These were not merely window-dressing or figurehead positions but real jobs involving a tremendous amount of real work and responsibility. Steve took up his new career with determination and the source of the money gradually ceased to be an open issue.

 **At this distance Dora couldn't quite distinguish** individuals as they moved around the barns and outbuildings below... except for a blur of color that could only be Dottie—the only elderly woman she knew with the chutzpah to wear windsuits in screaming fluorescent colors such as today's international-distress orange. Checking her wristwatch and finding she still had plenty of time on her hands, Dora immersed herself in further reminiscences... of the people who'd figured, and some who still did, so prominently in her life.

Dear old Slugger, how she missed him! He'd been father figure to them and 'Granddad' to their offspring—the only one the children'd ever known. Although a duplicate of Steve and Dora's master bedroom suite at Follymoor had been intended for Slugger and Dottie, the old man'd refused to budge from Hollin Hall. He loved the dilapidated old farmhouse exactly the way it was and in 2001 passed away peacefully at age eighty-two, dozing in his favorite rocking chair with his slippered feet propped on the fender perilously close to the heat of the cast iron stove. Slugger'd been only fifty-two when Dora'd first come to Follyfoot, inconceivably ancient to the then teenager. And Dottie'd been forty-two when she'd come to keep house... again, unimaginably old.

 **Now a spry and still keen-witted eighty-five-year-old,** Dottie occupied the suite at the other end of the long hallway on Follymoor's top floor. Her four sons and their wives and children frequently dropped by or fetched her for short visits and of course her grandson Ian was married to Jules. Each of the Doyle boys had offered privately to make a place for his mother in his own home, or at least underwrite assisted living elsewhere—they didn't want her to become a burden to the Rosses. But both Steve and Dora'd assured them that the only way that would happen would be over their own dead bodies—they considered Dottie their mother just as if she'd actually given birth to them.

Whereas most elderly ladies favored small cuddly and furry or cheerfully chirpy and feathery pets such as cats or canaries, Dottie'd always had a cow... not the original Queen Maude, of course—that one was already ancient (in cow years) when she'd first accompanied Dottie to Follyfoot. At regular intervals the old Maude would vanish and a new Jersey heifer with identical markings would appear in her place, each successor lasting many years past her life expectancy. The current Queen lived down at the farm in the North Barn along with the rescue animals—no longer just horses—and Dottie visited her every day, whizzing along the drive in her canopied electric golf cart with zippered clear plastic side panels in case of inclement weather. No one'd ever completely understood or questioned the old lady's devotion to her cow but they respected it. Slugger'd known... but to the end refused to divulge the reason for his wife's bovine obsession.

Though not sisters of the flesh, Dora and Hazel considered themselves as such and remained close. They had a standing lunch date every Wednesday at noon, went on shopping junkets together, spotted for each other at the fitness centre three times a week, and went hacking together whenever their free times coincided. They'd stood as godmothers to each other's firstborn, just as their men'd done as godfathers, and traded baby clothes back and forth with each new arrival. The Stryker and Ross families went on combined beach holidays every summer, in the early years hauling their contingent of children along with a brace of nannies to keep them in check. Nowadays just the four of them would fly out, seeking quiet senior-adult-friendly venues with numerous solicitous staff that catered to their every need and where no demands were made on their time or attention.

 **Dora thoughts turned to her dear friend Elayne.** Arriving on the scene a few months before Dora, the imported American trophy wife of Sir Hughes Butler and the shy teenage girl'd formed an unlikely alliance that'd endured to the present day. Upon the death of her geriatric honorable, the flamboyant Lady Elayne'd returned to her native land where she'd swiftly snagged another wealthy husband with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Now seventy-five and as vivacious as ever, recently widowed by husband number seven or eight (Dora'd lost count), Elayne spent half the year at her primary residence in an upscale retirement community in Palm Harbor, Florida and traveled extensively during the other six months, visiting Yorkshire several times each year. These days, she and Dora kept in almost daily contact via email and text.

After Sir Hughes'd cantered off to join his ancestors on that celestial polo ground, Elayne'd voluntarily surrendered her claims to the Butler estate to her stepchildren, who were after all the rightful heirs and she certainly didn't need the money—retaining only a four hundred acre tract abutting Follyfoot to the west. This she offered to Dora and Steve at a ridiculously undervalued sum and they'd been in a position to take her up on it. With all the additional acreage now in the family there was no lack of pasturage for all their horses.

 **Somewhere in her subconscious** Dora knew that if she ever really needed or wanted a recap of that extraordinary week preceding her engagement and birthday celebration—now shrouded in mystery—Elayne would be the one to whom she need apply. Elayne'd been as deeply implicated as anyone and she possessed a photographic memory.

Dora suddenly realized that this rush of memories was making her extremely uncomfortable. She'd been meaning to ask her GP for something to alleviate the bouts of insomnia she'd been suffering lately, alternating with dreams so vivid and intense that sometimes she woke up gasping for breath. The dreams were occurring more frequently as well... always featuring a very young Steve, or at least someone who looked as he had at nineteen, but who was a stranger to her. Sometimes she'd wake to find herself drenched in perspiration and her heart pounding until reality seeped in and she could assure herself that her husband was sleeping soundly and undisturbed by her side. But by then the images had faded and the dreams went unremembered.

The hand that held the coffee cup trembled and she felt like crying for no good reason, just as when she was very much younger. Ridiculous! She was sixty-one years old and in complete command of her faculties, not a hormonally-imbalanced sixteen-year-old who habitually shed tears at least once or twice a day, with or without cause.

She considered taking up the phone and ringing Elayne, who always dished out sensible—if at times raucous or highly improper—advice for all occasions. Earlier, the niggling voice in the back of her mind had kept telling her: _Go to Dottie. Dottie has the answers._ Dottie, who in her younger years had been reputed to be a witch. The voice reminded her that at a crucial time in her life she'd actually believed that silliness! Dottie'd figured largely in that missing week which had culminated in Steve's proposal. Dora couldn't recall when it was that she'd stopped believing in Dottie as anything other than the marvelously competent woman who'd come into their home a long time ago to keep house and ended up assuming the mantle of matriarch of the household—whom the second generation'd regarded all their lives as 'DoDo' (short for 'Grandmother Dorothy') and _their_ children called 'GeeGee' for great-grandmother. Dora herself was 'GranDora' to Sarah's girls and 'Gram' to Jesse's. Apparently no one called their grandmothers 'Grandmother' these days.

 **Dora'd never been much** of a church-going woman and had never subscribed to any particular mode of religious observance, but that'd never interfered with her lifelong reliance on a benign presence, a higher power that ultimately rewarded those who lived by the Golden Rule. She sincerely believed in faith, hope and charity, in second chances, in the benefit of the doubt, in human kindness, and that virtue was its own reward. Friends and acquaintances, neighbors and business associates alike were unanimous in their acclaim: Dora Ross was a 'good' woman, the best... personable, compassionate, altruistic, competent in any situation. She was a dearly beloved wife, mother, grandmother and friend whose company was always esteemed. In short, Dora Ross was as close to perfection as was humanly possible and she was very much aware that that was how she was regarded by everyone who knew her.

The problem with that, Dora thought, was that one then spent every single waking moment struggling to maintain the image as role model and living in constant fear of falling off the pedestal. She knew she should be thankful for the myriad blessings that graced her life. And she was—no one person deserved as much good fortune as she'd enjoyed in the past forty years. She had a loving husband whom she adored, and who adored her back in equal measure, four attractive children each of whom had grown up to achieve beyond expectation their parents' dreams, and seven bright and pretty granddaughters. Everyone enjoyed good health. They had the means to live comfortably on the land they loved, travel abroad and indulge in luxuries from time to time. Other than Julia's misfortune, life was good—no adversities to overcome, no calamities to remedy, no major problems to address.

 **Dora'd never placed much importance** on the so-called portents of sleep-state dreams—although years ago she'd had a nightmare in which Steve'd been injured… and _that_ dream had come true. As a girl, she'd been prone to daydreaming, which her therapist later explained was all about denial and escapism. As a young mother, she'd had no time for daydreaming. Approaching middle age, there was no longer any need for it. But the daydreaming had started up again—odd moments of dislocation, of faces and tableaux flashing through her mind that seemed familiar yet weren't readily identifiable. As with the dreams, these episodes had been gathering momentum.

Fearing the prospect of early-onset Alzheimer's, Dora'd Googled the symptoms and was relieved to find she had none of the ten warning signs. She also looked up premonitions, hallucinations, visions, and any other manifestations she could think of... but it wasn't until she got around to 'flashbacks' that there was a glimmer of illumination. The more she read the more convinced she became that her 'regressive episodes' were linked to a significant event in her life, perhaps a traumatic experience that her conscious mind had locked out of accessible memory. And from there it was only a short mental hop back to that missing week.

 _But why is this coming back to plague me now?_

 **It wasn't that Dora wasn't happy...** of course she was happy. But to her own amazement, she realized that she, Dora Ross, who'd always resisted—with both heels firmly dug in—unplanned change in her immediate environment, was longing for something different in her life. Some excitement. A challenge. What form this would take was beyond her ability to imagine at the moment.

Dora'd considered and then rejected sharing her mounting anxieties with her husband, having noticed in recent weeks that he, too, seemed to be harboring some personal concerns that he wasn't ready to reveal either. And she knew better than to pester him about it. Instead she'd finally gone to Dottie a few days ago to pour out her worries and beg for advice, insights, anything. At Dora's request the two women'd packed a picnic lunch and boarded the golf cart for an excursion far enough away from the Ross hordes to ensure absolute privacy. With Dottie at the wheel, they'd whipped down the tree tunnel to the hidden lake and settled on a blanket on the shaded grassy bank.

As it turned out, though, Dora'd come away unenlightened. The usually effusive Dottie had listened attentively but when questioned about what she remembered had unaccountably turned vague and evasive.

"I'm sorry, dear... it was all so long ago and my memory isn't what it used to be, you know. Perhaps you should take this up with Elayne when she gets here?" Dottie'd smiled sweetly while Dora strove to keep her annoyance from showing. "No sense in worrying yourself about what might have happened back then... it's all worked out for the best, hasn't it? And life would be ever so boring if not for a bit of change now and then."

Change, when it arrived, was to prove much more challenging than anything she could possibly have imaged or dreamt.

 **ON THE ROAD TO KALISPELL**

 _ **At three o'clock that morning**_ , the convocation having at last concluded, the sixty-six witches made their way to the underground parking garage to regain the conveyances that had brought them there, in most cases four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicles. A full dozen had arrived on horseback and several by motorcycle. A quintet of hidebound traditionalists warmed up their lovingly maintained antique transportation. The oldest witch present was assisted onto her sixteenth century Persian Tabriz carpet, bolstered by vintage tapestry cushions. Another woman, strapping on a helmet and kick-starting her modified Dyson® Ball™, occasioned lifted eyebrows of disapproval. She merely shrugged and explained that although she'd paid through the nose for it, 'the dang thing never did work too good so I might as well get _some_ use out of it!' The Rocky Mountain States Regional Director and Global President Emeritus snickered before climbing onboard their camo-painted 2014 Jeep® Kalahari Expedition Wrangler™.

The attendees milled about smartly while awaiting the all-clear signal that would enable them to depart the premises unobserved. (A much vaunted security feature of the Center was a state-of-the-art aerospace monitoring unit that tracked the passage of global satellites and any other air traffic and indicated safe intervals during which the spies in the skies were out of range.) When the Klaxon sounded, they proceeded in an orderly fashion—rolling, trotting, floating or flitting—toward the exit.

 **Under a full moon,** the Jeep jolted, bounced and bucketed over deep water-filled ruts in what appeared to be an overgrown pig trail. Although Elayne was securely belted in, she clung to the grab bar and squalled every time the vehicle became momentarily airborne.

Normally at this time of year there would have been several feet of snow on the ground, but a Chinook wind diving down from Canada a few days before had evaporated all but scattered persistent drifts in permanently shaded nooks and crannies. Where ice had melted and formed runnels, pools of muddy water dotted the occasional horizontal stretch of roadbed. What wasn't wet was dusty. The Jeep's passing stirred up great clouds of it.

"Slow down! Yer gonna kill us dead."

"We don't have a minute to lose, thanks to you. Some lead time would've been appreciated. We'll barely make it to the airport in time as it is. Why do you always have to wait until the last second to share these problems?!"

"We ain't gonna make it atall the way yer drivin'. An' I only just heard about it myself yesterday."

"I'm only going thirty miles an hour!"

"My hairdo's fallin' down!" Elayne wailed as they rattled over a run of rocks.

Elayne reinvented herself on a weekly basis; today she was in full Tammy Faye Bakker mode, complete with televangelist Big Hair and enough makeup to outfit an entire raiding party of Zulu warriors.

"They's dust flyin' everywhere an' it's gonna ruin my robe."

"You should have taken it off when I told you to before we got in the car."

"Do you know what it costs to dryclean a silk ceremonial robe?"

"No and I don't care. If you had any sense you'd get one like mine... stain-resistant wrinkle-free polyester-cotton blend... all you do is toss and wash."

Solánge—who went by the prénom 'Sally' at home—viciously wrenched the wheel to the right to avoid a large mud wallow in their path and spewed out a stream of invective as the vehicle canted at a sickening degree with the two passenger-side wheels riding along the bank. The sixteen-point eight-hundred-pound bull elk reposing placidly in the mudhole looked mildly perturbed but didn't offer to move.

"Lawdamercy!" Elayne screeched in alarm.

The next obstacle was an eroded fissure down which the Jeep lurched, scraping bottom, and then up again.

"One more a them an' my new boobs're gonna fall right down around my ankles!"

"At your age, the last thing you needed were silicone implants."

"A gal gotta look her best, don't she? An' now that Clyde's done kicked the bucket, I gotta start lookin' fer me a new sugar daddy PDQ. How about goin' around them potholes instead a us maybe endin' up in China?"

"How about you just stick your wand out the window and fill 'em in," Sally suggested testily.

Elayne mashed her lips together and sulked. Her robe had come unfastened and flew back, releasing a froth of petticoat and ruffles and revealing puff sleeves and a fitted bodice with darling little valentine hearts all over it.

"Good grief! What on earth have you got on under there?"

"It's a square dance dress. Ain't it cute?"

"You look like Little Bo Peep's senile grandmother. And another thing... what was all that 'we' business back at the meeting? You made it sound like we were in it together. I had nothing to do with it... all I did was loan you my husband to do _your_ dirty work! _And_... I distinctly recall, back when we engineered the original mission, you were quite adamant about not using magic. Absolutely no magic, you said, which is why we went about it the way we did."

"So I did."

"And yet you went behind our backs after we'd left and dropped a memory block on them. How do you justify that, I'd like to know?"

"It was an executive decision on the spur of the moment. I was President back then... I could do them kinda things."

"Yes... but... was it necessary?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. They had so much going on I figgered they needed clear heads an' all their marbles to get on with their courtin' an' marryin' an' all, instead a worryin' about stuff they'd never understand in a gazillion years anyway."

"Well... if you'd left well enough alone we wouldn't be in this pickle. At the very least you could've kept me informed!"

"Why? It all worked out, didn't it? Until lately, anyways. I paid good money for that charm an' it was guaranteed to last a hunnert years!" Elayne mourned. "How was I to know it was a dud?"

"I hope you purchased it through a reliable source. You might be able to sue or if nothing else demand a refund!" Sally said.

"No such luck. I was kinda in a hurry so I got it on the black market from some witch wannabe in the village that Dottie mentioned... some prunefaced crankypants called Phyllis what failed her sorcery exams... but hey, it was on sale an' I got a terrific discount."

"You got what you paid for, then," Sally muttered darkly. "You should have known better!"

"Whatever. They's all startin' to remember things they'd a been better off not ever knowin'... but since we can't fix that, leastways we gotta get 'em studying on the good parts a what happened, not jus' the bad stuff... 'specially Steve, since he didn't know nuthin' 'bout us in the first place. Don't know yet how much Dora remembers, but Dorothy says the gal's plumb wore out with worry."

"Speaking of which, does Dora know we're coming?"

"Not as such," Elayne replied, "She knows I'll be there in time for the party but I didn't say zackly when, so that gives us a few days' grace."

Sally rolled her eyes. "A few days!"

And so it went for the next half hour until they reached the ranch house, hurriedly packed their bags and flushed one of the grandsons out of bed to drive them to Glacier Park International Airport, another hour's ride away. Settling into the back seat of Sally's glossy black late-model Cadillac® Olympian™, they resumed their squabbling.

"I don't see why we gotta go all the way 'round our butts ta get ta our elbows," Elayne groused about not being able to get a direct flight to New York.

"Next time you have an emergency, _you_ try making reservations at the last minute... during a holiday week _and_ in ski season!" Sally retorted. "They were booked solid... it was pure luck I got those two seats on account of someone cancelling right before I called. Anyway, it's only a thirty minute layover in Atlanta and we don't even have to change planes. Count your blessings!"

Elayne wasn't done yet. "Some witch you are... ifn you'd a put your mind to it, ya coulda opened two other seats on a direct flight!"

"Might I remind you... just because you _can_ do magic doesn't mean you _should_ do it. It wouldn't be fair... or nice... to bump two innocent people off a plane just because you think _your_ business is more important. Furthermore, I would like to point out, if I may, that by discommoding those two souls we would be sliding into the realm of black arts... and we wouldn't want to stoop that low, would we?"

 **Emmett Hawkfeather Camerata** crammed the earbuds in his ears and turned the iPod's volume up as high as it could go. "Old people!" he thought, deftly maneuvering in the dark his grandmother's land yacht onto the highway from the ranch drive. Them two old biddies would argue with the Devil hisself. On the other hand, there were definite advantages to belongin' to a family where all the womenfolks was witches. For one thing, you didn't have to hump buttloads of luggage anytime one of 'em wanted to go somewhere... they could stash everythin' they needed in one little bitty ole carryon bag, whether they was goin' someplace overnight, for six weeks... or six months. And they sure was a lot more entertainin' than other folks' old folks. Plus, if you was in favor with Grandma, she'd help a fella out in a pinch... like, say, makin' that one-too-many speedin' ticket disappear.

Yawning widely, Emmett flipped on the radar detector and floorboarded the vehicle until it was streaking along at a steady ninety-five miles per hour. With Charlie Daniels drowning out Grandma Sally's and Tante Elle's fussing, he kept one eye on the rearview mirror (just in case they did anything entertaining like accidently spelling each other or something... as his sisters had been known to do). The other eye he prudently kept on the road ahead, on the lookout for perambulating cattle or lurking state troopers. It was, after all, open range.

 _ **Distance from Falling Waters Ranch Cooperative, Bitterroot Range, Montana, to Glacier Park International Airport, Kalispell, Montana: 97 miles**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6:**_ **A DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE**

 **Steve was also having difficulty** focusing on the relatively modest pile of paperwork requiring his attention that morning. He decided instead to stroll down to the stables and commune with his old friend Jerrik, unaware that Dora was watching from her window upstairs... knowing where he was going and why.

The spotted gelding had served Steve well for almost fifteen years but age was taking its toll. It was getting near time for 'Jerry' to be put out to pasture permanently. Steve'd been partial to leopard-spotted horses ever since Alex, the first horse he'd ever owned. After him had come another Appaloosa, Cochise, followed by Jesper—the first Knapstrupper Steve'd ever seen. In anticipation of Jesper's retirement, Steve'd made a special trip to Denmark and returned with another colt—the yearling he'd named Jerrik. Now it was Jerry's time for 'a day in the sun' and Steve's heart wasn't prepared to give him up just yet.

Steve stopped by the kitchen in Hollin Hall to collect a bucket of chopped apples and carrots to take out to the old horses. Returning the empty bucket an hour later he lingered at the kitchen table while Mac and Jonah, getting a head start on lunch preparations, plied him with tea and conversation. He even helped peel potatoes while regaling the two with stories of how, way back when, Slugger'd give him a good thumping if he neglected to pick all the eyes out.

 **That Hollin Hall, originally scheduled for demolition,** still stood was due to three factors: First, Jason's careful planning of Follymoor's exterior using dressed stones recycled from the barns and stables had resulted in no requirement for additional stone to be gleaned from the farmhouse. Second, with her new degree in economics firmly in hand, Julia'd overseen materials purchasing with such skill that enough funds were left over from construction of the new residence to easily finance renovation of the farmhouse after all. And—third—fifteen years ago when Dora's involvement in community development and civic improvement was approaching its zenith, she'd experienced a moment of divine inspiration...

Dora realized that as the numbers of working horses dwindled there was an accompanying and steadily increasing contingent of aging horsemen in the community whose services as riders, trainers and grooms were no longer required. Horses were all they'd known all their lives. Some were too old to move on to new careers and others not yet old or infirm enough to qualify for subsidized housing or old-age homes. Many'd never married or were widowers. Others survived at subsistence level on pensions, or on the dole if too young to draw pensions. With no families or children grown and gone and little work available, they congregated in the seedier pubs of Tockwith and surrounding villages where they hoisted their glasses to happier days and bemoaned their irrelevance to society.

Keeping in mind what her Uncle Geoffrey'd done for Slugger so many years ago—providing the has-been, broken-down boxer a home and an occupation—a happy solution had come to Dora: These down-on-their-luck older men needed shelter, companionship and—to preserve their dignity and self-respect—work they could still physically perform with pride. Follyfoot needed attendants and keepers for the expanded rescue facility. She'd presented a plan to Steve and he'd agreed. Julia'd done a feasibility study and given it her blessing. Hollin Hall'd not only been renovated but gradually enlarged and reconfigured into a group home of sorts, currently providing bed and board for sixteen men.

 **The former stableyard between the house** and the new barns was converted to vegetable and flower gardens, their centerpiece the magnificent copper beech that Dora'd coaxed back to life, still known as the 'Lightning Tree'. A wide promenade created with the original cobblestones from the yard ran down the middle from the back entrance of the farmhouse all the way out to the barns. It featured a horseshoe pitch, a circular stone firepit surrounded by semi-circular benches, where the old men could gather on cool evenings, and several patio tables with umbrellas and chairs grouped here and there for game players and readers.

The interior of Hollin Hall'd been completely gutted. The former kitchen and scullery'd been combined into a dining hall. An extension to the north side of the house housed a modern institutional kitchen and laundry facilities downstairs and additional bedrooms upstairs. The wall between Slugger's old bedroom and the dining room'd been knocked out to form a community lounge with a wide-screen television and comfortable furnishings. Dora's 1974 innovation—the family room fashioned out of a disused parlor—was now the library and reading room with wi-fi and several computers.

 **None of this'd been undertaken immediately,** of course—not while Slugger yet lived. It'd been Dora's intention to place Slugger in charge of identifying, selecting and inviting the initial residents. However, Dorothy'd sagely pointed out that, in view of the fact he'd refused to remove to the new house and in full awareness of his rapidly failing health, it would be best and kindest to put off any changes to his home for the duration. Steve and Dora agreed. But the plans were in place and ready for implementation whenever the time came, which happened within the year.

It'd fallen to Steve and Dottie, working as a team, to formulate ground rules for admission to what they'd christened 'the Society of FollyFellows'. Each man had to've demonstrated his compassion for animals and an ability to get along with other people. Each had to be willing and able to execute his assigned tasks, keep himself and his quarters clean, present a cheerful face to visitors to the Rescue Centre, and—in the case of petty disputes—agree to the determinations of the three-man Residents' Committee. All in all, terms and conditions of occupancy were not all that different nor any more stringent than any other senior citizens' residential facility. The major difference here was that these men still had years of usefulness left in them... and enjoyed their work. There were rarely any idle hands at Follyfoot and only three instances over the years of someone being requested to leave due an inability to adapt to this rather unique community. A third of the original sixteen residents still lived and worked here. Others had 'retired' and gone on to assisted-living or full nursing care facilities. Two had passed away. There was a very long waiting list of potential inhabitants, with newcomers still being carefully vetted by Steve and Dottie.

In the beginning Steve, Dora and Dottie'd made lists of suitable candidates but it'd been Steve alone who'd approached each man individually, because only Steve—with his deeply rooted aversion to acceptance of charity in any form—knew how to put forth a proposition of assistance without in any way compromising a man's pride. His first recruit'd been Blair Statham, former business magnate and racing stables proprietor who'd lost both his fortune and his arrogance in the recession of 1980-82. Bad luck on top of bad investment decisions had not diminished the seventy-seventy-year-old's capacity for organization and he'd served as chair of the Residents' Committee since its inception. Mr. Statham oversaw farm operations from the only room which still retained its original function as a study—to which the Colonel's massive antique rosewood desk had been restored. Here schedules and rotas were made out and duties assigned.

 **Dora'd long ago given up the struggle** to maintain Follyfoot as an equine-only refuge. Bit by bit, other animals had landed on their doorstep, figuratively speaking... especially after Ian'd married into the family and everyone knew they had their own 'tame' veterinarian... which was why the North Barn had been designed as it had. Most but not all of the men were experienced in the ways of horses, from operators of milk floats and bakery delivery carts to retired jockeys and former proprietors of boarding and livery stables. The few who weren't had at some point in their lives been responsible for the care and upkeep of other animals, both domestic livestock and zoo specimens.

One of Steve's rules—strictly inculcated in the minds of the younger generation, was that the FollyFellows were always to be treated respectfully and addressed as 'Mister' followed by the appropriate surname or first name, if given permission by the name's owner. The men returned that respect in kind when addressing the younger people... it was always 'Mister', 'Miss' or 'Missus'. Even Steve, Dora and Dottie observed this convention in the presence of outsiders or the youngsters.

In this house of men, however, such pretenses were generally ignored, and several hours slipped by as Steve, Mac and Jonah joked, laughed and traded stories. Having finished his morning rounds, Blair asked Steve to join him in the office to go over some proposals for increasing attendance and donations at the Visitor Centre. Steve wasn't much in favor of Blair's grandiose schemes, reminding him that they weren't in the theme park business, but a couple of his ideas had merit and Steve promised to bring them to Dora's attention. They were deep into a discussion concerning pasture drainage when the clumping of keepers coming in for the first lunch seating reminded Steve he ought to be returning to his own house for lunch.

 **Inbetween family visitations Steve tended to forget** just how much din could be generated by children and their minders. He loved his children and grandchildren as much as the next man but he knew that once Jesse's daughters were here, especially in combination with Sarah's kids and the Stryker cousins, the decibel level would exceed his comfort zone and he'd have to invent excuses to absent himself. Until the festivities were over and the Ross children and their entourages had returned home, the formal dining room would be in continuous use. It would be awhile before he and Dora could resume sharing their quiet meals in the breakfast nook off the kitchen.

Steve entered the house at the bottom level and went up the staircase to the main floor where the noise and frenetic activity hit him like a sledgehammer after the relative peace of Hollin Hall. Sarah was feeding her two younger girls in the breakfast nook and trying to ignore Annie's sulks at being relegated to the 'kiddie table' instead of being allowed to sit with the grownups. 'Aunt' Callie Shepherd sat placidly off to one side having tea with Dottie, waiting for the little girls to finish so she could whisk them away as promised. Already seated at the big table in the dining room Steve counted daughter Julia, sons Jesse and Michael, sons-in-law Jason and Ian... and Trini, whom Dora'd always boldly introduced to one and all as their son-in-law—defying anyone to contradict her.

The usually unflappable Miz Bee was looking harried as she juggled pots on the stove while issuing a steady stream of monosyllabic instructions to the maids darting back and forth like minnows, ferrying items to the table. Dora was filling water tumblers with cubes from the icemaker and mouthed a word at Steve which appeared to be 'Sorry!' The three rat terriers—Simon, Theodore and Alvin—shuttled back and forth between the breakfast and dining tables in hopeful anticipation of illegal hand-outs, both intentional and unintentional... the occasional sausage _had_ been known to descend from above. Emma was entirely too dignified to participate and had retired to her pillow in the corner.

Lunch seemed to last forever and Steve felt a headache coming on. He'd have liked to just get up and walk away to some quiet corner away from all these people, but of course he couldn't be that rude. Not for the first time he wondered how he'd come to be patriarch of this sprawling clan—he, Steven Paul Ross, borstal boy, who'd arrived at Follyfoot forty-three years ago with no prospects, barely a change of clothing to his name, no kin to speak of, and a quarry's worth of chips on his shoulders.

At last the lunch party broke up with Callie and the two little girls leaving first, then Michael and Trini. Jason, on his way back to his studio, offered to drop Ian off at his clinic. Dottie'd gone back upstairs for her customary _après_ -lunch nap and Jesse'd vanished somewhere. Steve and the mall-bound expeditionary force made perfunctory offers to assist in cleaning up but Miz Bee snorted and pointed a finger, growling 'Out!', which loosely translated could've meant 'No thanks, I have plenty of help' or simply 'bugger off'... so they did.

 **In the sanctuary of his study** (dubbed the 'Man Cave' by the children years ago—entry by invitation only, except for the housecleaning service), Steve snicked open the sliding door and stepped out onto the flying terrace. A predicted cold front had started moving through, bringing a significant drop in temperature. The towering cumulus clouds of earlier that morning had consolidated into a flat dark overcast that smelt of rain, which wouldn't affect the ladies in the controlled environment of the shopping mall.

Going back inside and sliding the door closed, Steve applied an igniter to the cherry logs already laid in the fireplace. In short order merrily dancing flames provided enough illumination so that he didn't need to turn on a lamp. He left the vertical blinds open and thought about turning on the television before deciding he'd rather just sit and think. Splashing a generous tot of calvados into an heirloom Waterford snifter, he settled into his recliner, kicked his shoes off, and grunted with relief at the welcome quiet.

On a corner of the desk reposed two silver-framed portraits of himself and Dora, one taken on their wedding day and the other depicting them on horseback earlier in that same year. Although he couldn't at the moment actually see the pictures, he didn't really need to... he had every pixel memorized. Alex and Copper were their first and most beloved horses and the four of them had clocked many, many miles on their rambles into the countryside. In those days they would gallop headlong up and down the rolling hills and moors, jumping any obstacles in their path with near reckless abandon and racing each other back to Follyfoot. Steve chuckled to himself at the exuberance of youth, even while momentarily experiencing a pang of regret for those far-off days when passions flared red-hot, convictions were firmly delineated in black-and-white, and no one gave a thought to protective headgear.

Nowadays, weather permitting, Steve and Dora's usual morning routine included a leisurely hack of an hour or so. Occasionally they would make the trek to Butler Hall where the current owner and their newest friend Daire McDaniel had opened boarding and training stables. While the Rosses themselves were no longer actively involved in schooling, they still enjoyed watching sleek young animals being put through their paces by dedicated young riders, almost all of whom were in the process of obtaining certification or degrees in equine management from the nearby university.

 **Dora'd never been employed** outside the home, which wasn't to say she hadn't worked like a field hand. In the first twenty years of their marriage she'd somehow juggled child rearing and domestic management with running Follyfoot and schooling other people's horses, successfully for the most part. She'd also embarked on the first of her community service activities. Steve'd thrown himself into higher education. It'd taken the better part of a decade to finally achieve his master's degree in business administration, as he'd only been able to attend post-graduate classes part-time.

No, those first ten years hadn't been at all easy... and nothing at all like what they'd envisioned would be their married life. They were both always tired, often too exhausted to make love. The children consumed incredible amounts of Dora's attention. Steve'd felt both relief and guilt when called away on business. And when he was home, they too often ended up quarrelling.

The second decade wasn't much better, with Jesse and Julia poised on the brink of adolescence and the twins, Michael and Sarah, not yet in school. But somehow he and Dora'd managed to stay together—possibly because, Steve reflected, husband and wife had so _little_ time to spend with each other. Many of their friends and acquaintances had divorced by then.

Steve's short-lived corporate career had begun and ended with a prestigious literary management company; he'd been headhunted just prior to receiving his degree and after a brief training period assigned as personal liaison to a celebrated woman author of 'mature years.' He'd been advised, quite frankly, by the personnel manager that he'd been chosen more on the basis of his appearance and sonorous speaking voice than the quality of his knowledge or education. The lady was wealthy, influential and image-conscious. When at public events and on tours, she expected to be accompanied by a presentable agency representative and demanded nothing less than a blue-ribbon specimen. The money was good and the author easy to get along with, but the constant traveling took him away from home for days and weeks at a time. After a two-month sojourn in Australia, he was exhausted by anxiety and guilt over having left Dora to cope on her own. And he missed her and his children terribly.

 **When he finally opened his heart** to his charge, the author listened carefully and then made a suggestion that was to steer his career path in a new though related direction: audio books, which were then just coming to the attention of publishers. He'd be perfect, she declared. In fact, she'd just opened negotiations with the publisher on creating an audio book from the first of her many best-sellers and would insist on Steve's being given the job! The endeavor was a success and Steve was contracted to do her entire series. The best part was that the recording studio was located in Manchester and he would rarely have to be gone from home overnight. After that his talent was vied for among other authors and then he started being called to do radio plays.

During that time Dora'd turned thirty-five, acquiring full managerial rights to her late uncle's convertible trust. This enabled her to dispose of the manor house and estate grounds and establish the Ross and Follyfoot trusts for which Steve was given responsibility—yet another career shift although he continued his voice work.

 **The Ross' silver anniversary** had ushered in an era of domestic tranquility. The two older children were gone from home—Jesse, married by then and living in America, and Jules away at the London School of Economics, close to graduation. The twins, choosing to travel together, were off on their gap year. And Mr. and Mrs. Steven Ross rediscovered their passion for each other.

After that it'd been smooth sailing. The twins'd flown the nest—Sarah studying interior design at community college and for a brief period sharing an apartment in Harrogate with a friend and Michael at the Sorbonne in Paris, intent on making his mark in the world of fine art. Julia was living in London. Steve'd gone into semi-retirement, accepting only one or two assignments per month. Dora, who'd been deeply involved for years in social, charitable and civic organizations, began relinquishing her presidencies and chairmanships one by one. Their lives seemed to be perfectly in sync—each instinctively understood when the other required alone time and would graciously withdraw. Conversely, each always seemed to be available at the right time and the right place when the other required consolation, felicitation... or just a cuddle. Anyone who'd never been privy to one of the Rosses' knockdown, drag-out fights would never have believed it possible that they were capable of such.

But... in the past few weeks Steve'd gradually become aware of what he privately regarded as 'a disturbance in the force'... a term he greatly admired from his all-time favorite film, 'Star Wars'. At first he'd attributed the subtle shift in atmosphere to Dora, who of late had become more distant and preoccupied than usual. It wasn't The Change, he knew—that was already over with. She didn't have any obvious health problems... or if so, she hadn't confided in him. He racked his brain for any action... or inaction... on his part that might have given cause for offense, and came up with nothing. She hadn't mentioned anything that could account for her distraction. Bottom line, he didn't have a clue.

Staring into the dancing flames in the fireplace, he was acutely aware that something was off-kilter with their world.

 **In the beginning his passion for Dora** had been an all-consuming fire in the belly that'd threatened to destroy him. Over the years the flame may have dwindled but the embers that remained warmed his heart and soul. He honestly couldn't imagine his life without her in it. However, his thoughts'd lately been returning to the puzzling issue of his having asked Dora to marry him in the first place. Of two things he was positive: that it'd happened during the week preceding her twenty-first birthday—and that at the time he'd had no intention whatsoever of proposing. No matter how many times he'd examined the chronology of events in September 1974, he couldn't account for that elusive seven-day period in which _something_ had occurred to change his mind. It was no use—all that remained was a blurry erasure in his mental copybook. And of course he couldn't very well ask his wife what if anything _she_ remembered.

Steve reflected on the brief but unnerving encounter he'd had with Dottie the previous evening. Just before bedtime Dora'd expressed a desire for hot cocoa and perhaps some toast to settle her tummy, so he'd volunteered to go downstairs and bring her back a tray. In the kitchen, he'd found Dottie in bathrobe and slippers, already assembling two percent milk and instant sugar-free cocoa mix in Dora's favorite white china mug labeled 'I ω My Grandma'. Slices of Miz Bee's homemade bread were already in the toaster, with plate and napkin neatly laid out on the tray.

"How did you...? Never mind!" Steve'd long ago grown accustomed to Dottie's extraordinary prescience in anticipating other people's needs, actions and even thoughts. And over the years he'd of course heard the recurring rumors of Dorothy's acquaintance with witchcraft but lent no credence to such nonsense.

 **While waiting for the toast to brown** and the microwave to do its magic, Steve'd asked—with elaborate casualness—if Dottie remembered the week he and Dora'd got engaged.

Dorothy'd always been a short woman and age had shrunk her down even further so that she'd to look up to Steve. Her bright cornflower blue eyes blazed in her wizened face.

"You listen here, Steven Ross... don't you go borrowing trouble!" she'd hissed fiercely. "What does it matter how you came together? What's important is that you did, and you've stayed together and raised this fine big family. Every day with each other is a gift, and every new year the best year of the rest of your lives... so be grateful for what you've got, boy, and leave the ghosts of the past be!"

Startled by her vehement response to his innocuous question, Steve'd stood by meekly until Dottie'd lightly buttered the toast and indicated the tray was ready to be taken up. He bade her good night for the second time that evening and slunk out of the kitchen, feeling her eyes boring into his back.

Dottie was right, of course, but—like a festering zit that only gets worse if you pick at it—the question remained... what exactly had happened during that lost week forty years ago? He couldn't prevent himself from thinking about it even though he knew he was drifting toward a dangerously obsessive state.

 **Steve wondered if,** as with so many other long-joined couples, he and Dora'd fallen into the trap of taking for granted that they still loved each other. Was it his imagination or had he been too busy to notice that she wasn't as demonstrative as she used to be? Had they become too complacent in this comfortable life they'd made together? True, they still occupied a connubial bed whereas quite a few of their peers had migrated to separate bedrooms and even more had divorced. True, they didn't make love quite as often as they used to or—as he suspected—she'd like. Was it even remotely possible that Dora'd found someone younger, more attractive, more sensuous... or more vigorous... to bring the bloom of romance back into her life?

Steve shivered involuntarily. Everything he'd accomplished, everything that he _was_ , he owed to her... not just the good fortune of successive inheritances that enabled them to live what outsiders deemed a charmed existence, wanting for little, but her unwavering and staunch support of anything and everything he undertook to better himself or benefit the family. She'd believed in him when no one else did. She'd encouraged him when he felt like giving up. She'd never, ever given him any reason to doubt her absolute fidelity... or had she? After all, it was _she_ who'd invited him into _her_ bedroom that very first time... an action totally out of character for her.

He recalled a poem—or perhaps it was a prayer: ' _God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.'_

Where was that serenity, courage and wisdom now that he needed it?

 **FROM KALISPELL TO ATLANTA**

 _ **Meanwhile, hurtling southeastward toward Atlanta**_ at 41,000 feet above the midwestern United States... in facing Seats A and B in the forward compartment (Section One) of one of American Eagle's lavishly appointed Embraer Legacy 600 executive business jets, Elayne and Sally carried on their quibbling. At first glance these were typical well-to-do ranchers' wives of mature years, dressed in regionally appropriate Western style: checked cotton blouses with contrasting piping and pearl snaps, calf-length flared denim skirts and stack-heeled boots. Elayne sported a towering platinum-bleached beehive and cats-eye glasses embellished with rhinestones. Sally's waist-length silver hair was pulled back into a single long plait, rolled up and skewered into a bun at the back of her head. No one gave them a second glance.

The only women onboard, they were able to converse in relative privacy as the other fourteen passengers—consisting of a delegation of priests, ministers and rabbis enroute to a seminar sponsored by the National Conference of Christians and Jews-—were clustered in the informal seating area toward the aft section where they were seriously debating the merits of the wine selections and premium liquors on offer. Under their iconic Stetsons, the top half of each man was clad in whatever clerical garb was standard for his belief system, but from their ornate belt buckles down they all wore Levis and cowboy boots in every form of exotic hide from ostrich and snake to buffalo and elk. No one found _them_ outlandish, either.

Every so often one of the solicitous stewards would sashay forward to refresh the ladies' mimosas, the champagne-and-orange juice cocktails that were served along with breakfast. Having had very little sleep, both women were in garrulous moods. Elayne glumly poked at her eggs Benedict.

"What we's payin' to ride this bird, you'd think we'd at least get some decent grub. There ain't a speck a ham in this mess... an' no biscuits. Whoever heard a breakfast without no biscuits?"

A look of annoyance crossed Sally's face as she exclaimed, "Oh, horsefeathers! It just occurred to me... we should have called our special friend... he could have gotten us there in fifteen minutes, tops, and we wouldn't have had to waste a whole day flying conventional!"

"What... an' miss going through security checkpoint hell three or four times an' sitting twenty-four hours straight 'til our heinies petrify an' fall off?" Elayne joked. "For what it's worth, honey, it didn't occur to me neither. That's what happens when you get old."

"Is he even still around?"

"I seen him not too long ago," Elayne said. "Only he's a diff'rent model now an' I don't much care much fer the latest version. Smart-aleck twit, ya ask me. Too young, for one thing. An' no personality, not like Number Four. Now _there_ was a character! Blood gettin' a mite thin, I reckon, after all them regenerations. Even a cat ain't got but nine lives!"

"Oh well... too late now. Might as well relax and enjoy the ride."

The steward whisked away their serving trays and brought them fresh mimosas.

"So, what's our battle plan?" Sally asked brightly.

"Plan? What plan? We don't need no stinkin' plan! We'll play it by ear when we get there."

"Seems to me doing things on impulse is what got us into this mess in the first place!" Sally retorted sharply. She gave her companion a shrewd look.

"Hah! You really don't _know_ what to do, do you?" she sneered. "What's up with that? Losing your grip? Time to turn in your wand?"

"Certainly not. I'm sure we can come up with an equitable solution by the time we get to London if we just put our minds to it!"

Elayne was highly annoyed to discover she would not be allowed to use her cell phone while in flight, grousing, "While you was in the can at the airport this mornin' I got a extry-long text from Dottie an' didn't have no time to answer afore we got on the plane... said things're hottin' up at the ole homestead an' we need to haul ass toot sweet."

"Heating up in what way?"

"She says Steve an' Dora's jumpy as long-tailed cats in a room full a rockin' chairs an' been askin' more an' more questions about the past what ain't never come up afore—but sep'rately... not where the other can overhear."

"So they're starting to remember more? That's not good!"

"They's workin' in that direction, sure 'nuff. Dottie's soundin' kinda nervous an' wonderin' how long can she put 'em off."

"Well, I'm sure while we're on the ground in Atlanta you'll have an opportunity to text her back and catch up. We should be there in another hour."

Not finding an inflight movie to her liking, Elayne eventually dozed off. Sally flipped open the paperback she'd picked up at the gift shop before boarding... Janet Evanovich's latest oeuvre, 'Fast and Furious Twenty-Five'. Having polished off the last of the onboard wine and hard liquor supply, the religious gentlemen had embarked on a divinely inspired study of domestic versus imported beers—of which airline management had provided an ample sampling—and were quietly expounding on biblical references thereto.

 _ **Distance from Glacier Park International Airport to**_

 _ **Atlanta-Hartsfield International Airport, Atlanta, Georgia: 1,841 miles**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_ **: A BUCKET OF WORMS**

 **Although angry gray clouds** were being propelled by a blustery wind, no rain had yet fallen. Jesse held open the doors to his mother's Captiva SUV as the womenfolk piled in to embark on their all-day shopping trip. They were to pick up Hazel along the way. Then he did the same for Miz Bee and Denise, the maid who was accompanying her as dogsbody on a grocery-shopping foray. He watched from the parking area as both vehicles receded down the drive. Retreating through the side door into the garage, he reentered the house via the west hallway, hesitating as he passed the closed door to his father's study. No... he wasn't quite ready to beard the lion in his den.

Walking on, Jesse went through the lounge and past the foot of the staircase to the east hallway, pausing at the laundry room. Beyond its closed door someone was softly singing some sort of mournful ballad. On a whim he opened the door...

Both the washer and dryer were engaged and the other maid—Violet, he recalled—was standing at the ironing board. His appearance caught her by surprise and she stopped singing, holding the iron aloft, her eyes wide as a deer caught in headlights. She was a mousy little thing with an explosion of curly blue-black hair she wore pulled back with an elastic band as she went about her duties efficiently but silently, almost invisibly. He realized they'd not had occasion to speak with each other since his arrival, also noting—not for the first time—a passing resemblance to his sister Julia, though not as pretty.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you. I heard you singing and just wanted to say you have a lovely voice..."

The girl gravely considered this statement before answering. "Thank you. Is there something I can do for you, sir?" Clearly she wasn't inclined to strike up a conversation.

"No... nothing at all. Sorry I interrupted." Jesse withdrew, closing the door gently and proceeding down the hall into the pool enclosure where he sat in one of the patio chairs, marshalling his thoughts. He had a mission to execute...

 _If only..._

 _If only_ his eldest daughter'd chosen some other summer camp... _if only_ she hadn't met that particular young man... _if only_ she hadn't chosen that particular university... _if only_ his wife hadn't got interested in genealogy—and… _if only_ , forty-something years ago, his father hadn't yielded to temptation...

But Dad had... and now the piper had to be paid. Jesse'd been choreographing his approach for days and was no closer to finding an easy way to disseminate potentially catastrophic news than the day he'd first heard about it. But it had to be done… and, for the time being, the conversation he was about to have with his father required utmost privacy.

 **Lurching to his feet, Jesse left** the pool house and surreptitiously padded back through the hall and upstairs to the gallery. He tiptoed to the end of the corridor and put his ear to the door of DoDo's suite, through which he could hear her television going at low volume. Good. That meant she was safely engrossed in one of her beloved soap operas. Judging by the immense pile of laundry awaiting attention, that Violet would be immured in the laundry room for some time to come. With only the four of them left in the house, it was eerily quiet. Back downstairs, Jesse approached with trepidation the door to his father's study, patting his shirt pocket in which reposed an eight-gig flash drive containing information which was going to alter the Ross family dynamic in ways no one could have foreseen in his or her wildest dreams.

Jesse paused to rally his wits and gather his courage. The unwritten dictum _'Never ever disturb Daddy in his study'_ had been thoroughly instilled in all four children. Finally, he knocked. "Dad... it's me..."

"Come."

 **Jesse entered to see his father** sitting at his desk, almost hidden behind the twenty-seven inch monitor of the iMac Dora'd bought him for his birthday—far more computing power than he was ever likely to need or even learn how to use, but that huge screen sure made for easier reading, Steve'd admitted.

Steve smiled at his firstborn, his eldest son, remembering how overwhelmed he'd been when that yowling red scrap of humanity was first placed in his arms. He'd thought at the time that he'd never again experience that level of wonderment and joy. But he had, of course—two years later when Julia'd arrived and then the twins.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Jesse asked tentatively.

"No. Not at all. Glad of the company. Make yourself comfortable." Steve nodded toward the visitor armchair positioned alongside the desk. "What's on your mind?"

"I... um... we need to talk..."

"Oh?"

Jesse carefully closed the door behind him. Before seating himself, he extracted the flash drive and laid it down on the polished walnut surface. Steve's eyes went from the tiny cranberry-colored rectangle of plastic with its miniature lanyard back to his son, who was wearing that apprehensive face he used to bring home from school along with a notice of failing marks or bad behavior.

"You're looking very serious for this early in the day..." he commented mildly.

"It's a serious subject..." Jesse rubbed his jaw in unconscious imitation of one of his father's mannerisms. "I'm not sure where to begin."

" _Begin at the beginning and go on to the end. Then stop,_ " Steve quoted, adding helpfully, "White Rabbit. Alice in Wonderland."

Jesse sat back in his chair and folded his arms, quoting back, " _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ Sherlock Holmes."

This game of literary one-upmanship was an old one between father and son. Steve'd arrived at his appreciation of arts and literature somewhat later in life than most. The family library, occupying fitted shelves along the back of the greatroom and containing hundreds of well-thumbed books, had begun with a single leather-bound volume of poetry given Steve by Dora on their first anniversary—Khalil Gibran's 'The Prophet.' And he'd gone on to sire a tribe of voracious readers.

 **Steve regarded his firstborn** with an admixture of amusement and concealed impatience. Of the four children, Jesse'd always been the most docile yet the most difficult to read. He had his mother's temperament... at least, as Dora used to be in her younger days. Over the course of their forty years together as man and wife, they'd somehow swapped personalities—Dora becoming more assertive and Steve more reticent as time went by. Unlike his mother, however, Jesse'd never been a dreamer. He'd been a studious, observant child, sensitive to every nuance, and had grown into a self-contained, pensive adult. It wouldn't have surprised Steve at all if Jesse'd professed for the clergy.

Steve'd come to accept that his taciturn son never plunged directly into a presentation but always chose the most circuitous route possible—or so it seemed—and only after thorough examination of all possible angles. What someone else might categorize as disjointed ramblings, Steve recognized as Jesse's approach to a complex issue. The more serious it was, the longer it'd take him to arrive at the subject.

"Anytime this week would be good," Steve prodded gently.

"Well... it's about Pallas... at least, it starts with her..."

Jesse and Vonda's eldest daughter was in her freshman year at the Glacier Institute, a privately-funded progressive liberal arts college in western Montana renowned for its emphasis on the humanities—especially visual and performing arts. Gifted with a sublime four-octave vocal range, Pallas'd already been scouted by both the Intermountain Opera Society in Bozeman and the Montana Lyric Opera in Missoula but had not as yet settled on that—or anything else—as her intended career path. The narrative faltered as Jesse stared at the flash drive as if expecting it to continue speaking for him.

"I'm listening..."

"Actually... it's about this boy Pallas claims she's going to marry..."

" **Marry? Nonsense! She's only a child!"** Steve snorted dismissively. He liked to tell himself he loved all his granddaughters equally but in truth Pallas remained first and favorite. It was with a pang that he realized she was now a woman grown... no longer the bubbly, energetic toddler demanding to be taken up on the saddle in front of him.

Jesse shrugged. "She's eighteen... she could marry without our knowledge or permission if she wanted to, but that's not the issue..."

"Pallas isn't in the family way... it's nothing like that?" Steve cut in sharply.

"No, of course not! Lighten up, Dad... Vonda's already had _that_ talk with the girls."

"Children today know too much too young," Steve sighed, shaking his head. "Back in my day..."

"Let's not go there, okay?"

"She's too young!" Steve reiterated.

"Oh, we agree... but you know Pallas... stubborn as her grandmother and her Aunt Jules once she gets the bit in her teeth... and we can't very well lock her up until she's thirty. Anyway, she's told us this won't happen until _after_ she graduates..."

"What _is_ it, then? Don't tell me you're coming to _me_ for advice!"

"Not exactly, no..."

"Well then... is this boy unsuitable for some reason?"

"I guess that would depend on your point of view..."

Steve shook his head vigorously. "You're the girl's father and head of the family. If you disapprove of her young man, it's up to you to put your foot down... nip the affair in the bud!"

Jesse rolled his eyes. "Really? I seem to recall Mom had an unsuitable suitor once upon a time... and look how that worked out!" Dora's long-estranged parents had not only sternly forbidden her to associate with Steve but had gone into total meltdown, cutting her off without a penny when she'd married him anyway.

Steve chuckled and said, "Touché! But seriously... I'm not following."

"It's not so much _what_ he is as _who_ he is... maybe this'll be easier if I just show you." Jesse nodded at the iMac. "Mind if I drive?"

"Help yourself."

 **Jesse scooted his chair around** so that it was on the same side of the desk as Steve's and positioned it so that they'd both be facing the monitor. Steve moved over slightly and pushed the keyboard toward Jesse.

"You still don't do FaceBook, do you?" Jesse asked, cueing up the site.

Steve shook his head. "I don't understand this social networking madness. Privacy is difficult enough to maintain as it is without giving it all away on the Internet. Your mother likes it, though—says it's useful for keeping in touch with family members. I only go there to look at all the latest snaps of the children."

Jesse went to Facebook, clicked on Pallas' home page and then on 'photos', where her albums were neatly labeled by event and year. Scrolling to 'Summer Camp 2014' he clicked through the snapshots, stopping at a close-up featuring Pallas together with a young man. The girl possessed her mother's Nordic attributes, with silky straight hair so white blonde it was almost colorless. Her only physical resemblance to her father lay in her lustrous deep brown eyes. Her unsmiling companion didn't strike Steve as remarkable in any way, his facial features mostly hidden in the shadows cast by his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Both youngsters sported bright yellow teeshirts emblazoned with the logo of the children's camp where Pallas'd worked as a counselor last summer and the year before. The tagline identified them as Pallas Ross and Rowan Cameron. There were a few other pictures in which he appeared but none in clear focus. It was as if he were deliberately avoiding the camera.

"Yes, I remember seeing these before," Steve commented. "Is that the... erm... suitor?"

"Yeah, that's him. Not real good pics, I know, but she says he dislikes having his picture taken. I'll show you a better one in a minute."

"Looks a bit weedy to me. Not at all the sort of chap I'd expect her to be interested in. Have you met him?"

"Not until much later. I'd actually seen the boy at a distance earlier when I took the other girls for the first session Family Day at the end of June—Vonda'd had a business commitment and couldn't go. Pallas pointed him out as one of the wranglers but we weren't introduced at that time. She'd been transferred to wrangler dutyas replacement for an injured girl and moved into the duplex the wranglers shared—girls on one side, boys on the other. She started working closely with this boy every day and at some point they became an item."

"An _item?_ "

"That's what they call two people who're seeing each other these days, Dad."

"Oh."

"So anyway, Vonda took the girls for the second session Family Day at the end of July. I couldn't go because I had a board meeting in Los Angeles. So I wasn't there when the trouble started..."

"What trouble?"

" **When Pallas introduced him** as her co-worker, Vonda didn't like what she saw. She had the good sense to keep that to herself at the time but she asked some questions and when she got home she let me have it with both barrels!"

"What did she see that set her off?"

"I'm fixing to show you..."

Jesse stood up and walked over to the sideboard, from which he extracted two glasses and two bottles—scotch for his father and bourbon for himself. Carrying them over to the desk, he poured doubles for each of them.

"A bit early in the day for _that_ ," Steve said flatly.

"Trust me... we're gonna need it." Jesse plunked himself back down in the chair. "Suppose... just suppose one fine day _you_ found out that _you_ had an illegitimate son... one you never knew existed? What would be your reaction?"

Steve blinked. "Hypothetically?"

"Not necessarily," Jesse replied enigmatically, repeating, "How would you handle it?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know what I'd do... it's not something I've ever thought about. I mean, why would I? I guess it would depend on the circumstances..."

"For the sake of argument, let's say this boy grew up unaware of his biological parentage… that by some peculiar twist of fate both father and son were simultaneously made aware of each other's existence. As the father in question, would you want to meet him? Or would it complicate your life too much? How would you go about telling your wife and your other children about him?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at? Jesse... what've you done?"

" **Hold that thought.** First, let's talk about Rowan Cameron… Pallas' young man."

Jesse slotted the flash drive into a free USB port and waited for the icon to pop up on the desktop. After opening PhotoShop, he then double-clicked on the icon to display several innocent-looking data folders and double-clicked one of those. Steve wasn't all that computer literate but he recognized the contents as jpegs. Jesse double-clicked on one of them.

"The picture I'm about to show you was taken last year, for the kid's tribal registry and identification badge. His mother is one-quarter Shoshone. Kinship is reckoned matrilineally so he belongs to his mother's Osprey Band, which is part of the Métis Shoshone tribal association. His Shoshone name is unpronounceable but I was told it means 'walks like a lynx' or something like that. Another name for lynx is bobcat."

"So he's... what... an Indian? Feathers, not dots, one presumes?"

"Part Native American, yes," Jesse confirmed somewhat impatiently. Although 'First Nations' was the current politically-correct appellation with reference to the indigenous peoples of North America, Jesse went with the term 'Native American' as that was still commonly understood throughout the rest of the world to mean 'American Indian.'

The image Jesse brought up was a professional studio upper-body portrait taken against a dark backdrop. Sensual full lips in a wide mouth gave an impression of reserve. Heavy eyebrows arched over startlingly brilliant amber eyes and a knife-edged nose. A beaded headband across the forehead held back shoulder-length hazelnut-brown hair. The subject was shirtless, displaying a uniform caramel skin tone with a faint coppery sheen and no telltale differentiation of shading at neck and arms indicating a 'farmer's tan'. A noticeable scar marred his right collarbone.

"Look very carefully," Jesse instructed his father. "See anything familiar?"

"Not really, no," Steve said. "Looks very... ah... _ethnic_ , though." There in fact _was_ something disturbingly familiar about the face, stirring a repressed memory that he couldn't quite put a finger on.

"Are you sure?"

"What am I _supposed_ to be looking for?" Steve complained.

 **Yvonne had warned Jesse** that this would happen. _He'll only see what he_ expects _to see... an Indian kid._ _You'll have to be more direct._ Closing out that image, he brought up a similar but non-ethnic shot in which the same subject now wore a conventional collared white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat and without the indigenous accoutrements. He left it long enough for Steve to get a good look at it before cueing the next photo—a duplicate of number two. At Vonda's suggestion, Jesse had doctored this one in PhotoShop—the amber eyes were now a warm, deep chocolate colour, the hair and eyebrows a rich sable brown, the complexion many shades lighter, the face slightly narrower and eyebrows heavier.

"How about now?" Jesse asked quietly, scanning his father's face for a sign of comprehension. Just like his mother, he'd always been able to read Steve like an open book. Actually, anyone could. The elder Ross was completely guileless. He usually said what he thought and what he didn't say his face had always given away, which was why he'd never been able to pull off hard-nosed negotiations in business and was quite possibly the world's worst poker player.

Steve scrutinized the photo with rising apprehension. Ross genes had proven dominant in their family—Jesse and Julia were undeniably his get, as were the twins although Michael and Sarah were taller with hair a shade lighter. As he grew to adulthood, Jesse had come to resemble his father so closely that on several occasions they had been mistaken for brothers. Steve felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickle as understanding began to coalesce. The longer he studied the portrait, the more traits he began to identify—the way one eyebrow perpetually rode a tad higher as if in inquiry, how the corners of the mouth turned up, the tiny chin indentation that if any larger would be termed a 'cleft', the angle of cheekbones and sculpted planes of the face, the beginnings of laugh lines creasing the cheeks... it was all there if you knew what to look for. On the hand visible in the lower left corner of the picture were the same long, slender fingers that all the Ross children and their father possessed.

"How old is this boy? Where's he from?"

"Just turned nineteen... born and raised in Montana, on the same reservation where I worked the summer of '94. I guess you can see what Vonda was so upset about."

 **Steve sat back in his chair** and turned to Jesse in bewilderment, doing the math in his head and his focus zeroing in on the appalling implication… Jesse had just turned eighteen when he skipped off to California in 1993. He and Yvonne had both just turned nineteen when they married in 1995. Steve struggled to mask his rising agitation with a calm demeanor but his mind was roiling. He recalled being told that Jesse had taken a temporary summer job on a working cattle ranch in one of those intermountain states. Was his son trying to tell him—not in so many words—that this young person was the by-blow of a long-ago encounter?

Thanks to the many American exchange students with whom he'd rubbed shoulders at university, Steve was not unacquainted with the reputations of the mega-universities of the American West Coast—hotbeds of drug and alcohol abuse and licentious behavior. Their toe-curling stories had formed the real basis of his resistance to his son's determination to attend UCLA. Jesse was a gentle soul, a country boy, whom Steve'd feared could too easily lose his way and become detached from the moral values of his relatively conventional upbringing. Had Jesse survived his years of immersion in that dangerous foreign culture without any addictions or major blots on his copybook only to have a youthful indiscretion spring up out of nowhere after two decades?

Steve's mouth went dry as a maelstrom of unpleasant scenarios whirled in his head. He visualized his firstborn involved in a casual affair resulting in a bastard child who even now could be indulging in an incestuous relationship with his own half-sister. The havoc that would be wrought upon the family was too terrible to contemplate. At first words failed him as the gap between possibility and probability shrank at a terrifying rate, then he slapped the desk and leapt up, shouting...

"How could you have been so stupid? What was it? A one-night stand? Or were you so drunk or stoned you can't remember who you slept with?!"

 **Jesse cringed involuntarily** and for a brief moment he was transported back to childhood and memories of flaming rows between his parents. The fights weren't always private and too often the children had been privy to them.

Steve's temper was legendary back in those days although he'd never once resorted to physical violence with either his wife or his children. The fights would usually end with Dora dissolving in tears and Steve coming over all contrite and begging forgiveness. As years went by, however, Dora discovered her own inner resilience and capacity for hanging tough when necessary. She learned to give as good as she got. By the time the younger children came along, the sparring matches had dwindled to the normal disagreements and spats that every couple experiences occasionally. More often than not it was Dora who dealt punishment to miscreants, and Steve who blotted away tears and dispensed consolatory hugs. For someone whose own childhood had been devoid of love and nurture, he'd demonstrated a surprising tenderness toward his own children and an ability to show affection, if still unable to vocalize it. Jesse and his siblings'd never once doubted that they were loved by both parents.

The little boy inside Jesse wanted to hang his head and scuff the carpet with his toe, but he reminded himself he was prepared to deal with just this sort of reaction. He commanded himself to remain firm and practical in the face of Steve's rant, knowing worse would likely come when the full extent of the dilemma was revealed.

Still, Jesse gulped audibly. "Stupid...?"

"I thought I stressed the importance of protection when you were a teenager..."

"You did... but..."

"And if there's an accident, it's never only the girl's fault! The man involved has to assume his share of the responsibility. Didn't you get that part?"

"Yes, but..."

"Do you have any idea how this is going to upset your mother?"

"Dad... I..."

"And now you're condoning a liaison between your daughter and this... this _bastard_..."

"I'm not con..."

"What are you _thinking?_ This situation is both immoral _and_ illegal! Have you gone barking mad?"

"If you'd just let me..."

"I always suspected America was full of crazy people with debauched morals. Now I'm convinced!" Steve's face was contorted with fury, the veins in his temples bulging as he loomed over his son, his mouth opened to continue his diatribe.

Fearing that his father was working his way up to a stroke, Jesse stood up so that they were practically nose to nose and shouted back.

" _DAD… SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN!"_

 **AT HARTSFIELD AIRPORT, ATLANTA**

 _ **Meanwhile, at the refueling layover in Atlanta...**_ As all the jet bridges at the independent carrier concourse were in use, the Embraer was hardstanded at some distance from the terminal and a mobile staircase brought up. The ecumenical delegates debarked unsteadily in a high degree of sartorial disarray, no few of them legless by then and requiring offloading support by the stewards.

Elayne and Sally took advantage of the downtime to stretch their legs. An understanding attendant allowed them to stand outside the hatch at the top of the staircase in order to check their smartphones for messages and make a few quick calls. A sultry November breeze blew about them, the humidity alone threatening to topple Elayne's elaborate coiffure.

"I got three text messages from Dot," Elayne announced. "First one was at one o'clock their time..."

"That would have been six in the morning our time—we were already in the air."

"All the gals'd gone shoppin' an' there weren't no one in the house but her an' Jesse an' Steve an' one a them maids, so she figgered he was gonna be makin' his move soon. She went up to her room, pertendin' to get her after-lunch nap."

"And?"

"Next one was at two o'clock. After Jesse done come up to check on her like she knew he would, she snuck back downstairs to see what was goin' on."

"You mean eavesdrop?"

"Whatever. At three o'clock she was hid out in Dora's study next to Steve's, list'nin' to Jesse tell about..."

"How could she hear what they were saying?"

"She says they's a vent between the two rooms, way up high near the ceilin', an' she can hear every word jus' fine. Hang on... here's another text comin' in..."

Sally glanced at her wristwatch. "It's ten-thirty here, so it's three-thirty there. What's happening now?"

"She says Jesse's still leadin' up to the main bomb. He ain't dropped it yet."

Just then the senior pilot emerged from the hatch, joining them on the ramp and wringing his hands apologetically.

"Ladies... I'm afraid there's been a slight hitch in our schedule... we're experiencing a minor mechanical difficulty and we're going to be here a little longer than anticipated..."

"Booger!" Elayne exclaimed.

"How long is longer?" ever-practical Sally inquired with a frown. "We're booked on a flight leaving JFK at ten o'clock and it's imperative we not miss it. Do we need to try to rebook with another carrier to New York?"

"Oh no, m'am... I don't believe that'll be necessary." The pilot made some mental calculations. "Let's see... on our original schedule we would have been setting down at six o'clock this evening so you would've had a four-hour layover. The technicians expect to have us back in the air within two hours... so we'll have you there two hours before your flight's scheduled to depart. To compensate you for the inconvenience, American Eagle has authorized me to present complimentary day passes to the Delta Sky Club and XpresSpa facilities, both here and at JFK, if that's agreeable..."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_ **: WHEN HISTORY BITES YOU IN THE SHORTS**

 **Steve, cut off in mid-rant** and astounded by this uncharacteristic display of fortitude by his eldest, fell speechless back into his chair. Jesse was the least confrontational of his brood. Julia would've argued and rebutted any accusations, Michael would've fought back or offered excuses, Sarah would've wept and pled innocence. But Jesse'd always met adversity with stoicism, preferring reason over violence. Jesse never, ever raised his voice or exhibited any aggressive behavior and the father'd always regarded the son as somewhat of a pantywaist because of that.

Jesse sat back down himself and folded his arms, returning his father's glare with equal determination. "First of all, let's get on the same page of the hymnal here... you're carrying on like I'm at fault..."

"Well... _aren't_ you? At least _half_ to blame..."

" _I am NOT this boy's father!"_

So of course the next thing that leapt into Steve's mind was the possibility that one of his _other_ children could have produced a child out of wedlock. He immediately ruled out the girls—Julia wouldn't have allowed an 'accident' and Sarah couldn't have concealed a pregnancy while still living at home. That left only Michael which was hardly likely, considering... Then again, at fifteen he'd spent spring hols break in California visiting his brother (or was it winter?)—Dora'd been responsible for that, behind Steve's back, and they'd had an almighty great row over it. Perhaps Michael—running amuck unsupervised in the heady, no-holds-barred atmosphere of coastal California—had indulged in a bit of early experimentation before sliding out of the closet? But no... the obvious culprit had to be Jesse himself... no matter that he was denying it now.

"And neither is Mike, if that's what you're _hoping_ ," Jesse cut in harshly. "Get it through your head, Dad... Michael's gay... always has been, always will be."

"If neither of you is the father, then who is?" Steve demanded.

"That's what I'm trying to explain—if you'd just calm down and quit jumping to conclusions. Could you just do that, Dad?"

 **Steve acknowledged that he could** and would. Jesse stood up and scanned the 'bragging wall' behind Steve's desk—a visual encapsulation of memorable events and achievements in his professional life. From among the array of diplomas, certificates, awards, honors, plaques and framed portraits, Jesse selected one depicting Steve business-suited, with a conservative haircut and a serious expression behind wire frame spectacles—taken the year he'd served as president of the Rotary Club of Harrogate, the same year he'd turned forty. Jesse laid the portrait on the desk in front of Steve.

Steve allowed himself a small flush of satisfaction. He had done exceedingly well for a poor unlettered boy from a grimy coalmining town. Granted, it wouldn't have been possible without his wife's substantial inheritance sustaining them and their growing family during all the years it'd taken him to get through school. Often he'd been the oldest student in any given class. He'd worked hard, with Dora standing fast beside him every inch of the way, encouraging him to persevere and celebrating every hard-won achievement.

A long time ago someone had advised him to always look forward, never look back. Someone else... or it might have been the same person, he couldn't recall... predicted his voice would be his fortune. At the time he'd viewed that as nonsense. In retrospect he realized that was exactly what had happened.

Steve was dragged back to the present as Jesse opened another folder on the computer's screen and clicked on another jpeg. The image that appeared seemed to be a similar portrait of Steve at about the same age—same executive haircut, suit and tie—practically a biscuit cutter replica of Steve as he was then… and of Jesse as he was now...

" **This man," Jesse stated flatly** before Steve could ask, "is Doctor Robert Ross Cameron. He's a professor of anthropology at UCLA and Rowan's biological father."

Steve's exhalation of relief was audible. "If you know this for a fact, what was Yvonne's problem with you? All right... so he looks like us. So what? They say everyone has a doppelgänger... a look-alike... in this world. And it's not impossible you _could_ still be the father, you know... the time frame was right..."

"The problem _was_ , we didn't _know_ about Robbie Cameron _then_ …" Jesse said heavily. "At camp Vonda took one look at the boy and leaped to exactly the same conclusion you did… especially when she found out where he was from—the same ranch where I'd worked the year before she got pregnant with Pallas. She was like _this_ close to kicking me out of the house." He tossed back his bourbon at one go, shuddering and making a face.

"How'd you resolve the argument, then?"

"We didn't... not then. But at least she agreed we weren't going to discuss it in front of the kids. Let me back up a little here… once she calmed down a little, even though she wasn't convinced I _wasn't_ the kid's dad, she agreed to let things ride until the end of camp. After all, Pallas hadn't given her any indication she and this boy were anything more than co-workers… and if that's where it'd ended, the whole thing might've become a non-issue…"

"But?"

"When we went to get her settled in at university, turned out this young man was a second-year student at the same school… and that they had adjacent room assignments in the same residence hall."

"I've always disapproved of co-ed dormitories," Steve growled.

"Dad, segregated dorms are _so_ last century! Jesse retorted. "Anyway, back to my story... when he and I were formally introduced he said something really odd... that I looked enough like his dad that we could be brothers, except that his father's from California and doesn't have any siblings as far as he knows. That should've been our first clue, but I wasn't paying that much attention and Vonda was in the dorm room with Pallas so she didn't hear him..."

" **Clue to what?"**

"I'm getting there. So at the parent/faculty reception later that evening we met the mother. She kept staring at me kinda funny and then _she_ said... and I quote: _'Please excuse my rudeness, Mr. Ross... Rowan did try to warn me but... the resemblance to his father... it's really quite remarkable—you could be twins. Are you SURE you're not from California?'_ She was joking, of course—about California—but Vonda didn't take it that way! And that was our second clue... we just didn't know it yet."

Jesse went on to describe the tense atmosphere that prevailed during those first few minutes... during which Vonda had remarked with thinly veiled sarcasm, 'Is it remotely possible the two of you _have_ met before, Jess... and you just don't remember? Twenty years is a long time, after all.' The insinuation and the glacial manner in which it was delivered was chilling. Madeleine Camerata had thrown her head back with a throaty laugh and offered, 'I think we're about to have a most illuminating conversation.'

Jesse continued. "Vonda cooled off after Maddy—that's the mother—assured her she could _prove_ that Robert Cameron was Rowan's father and I wasn't. After they got _that_ out of the way, they got to chatting and found out they had a mutual interest in genealogy... especially when Maddy mentioned Doctor Cameron'd been born in England. Naturally they wondered if there might be a connection..."

"And did they find one?"

"I'm not done," Jesse said heavily. "Far from it. Pallas finally confided in her mother that she was involved with this boy. When Vonda asked her why this particular one, she said it was because he reminded her of me... whatever she meant by that."

"Speaks well of you as a father," Steve said. "You should be flattered. Girls do tend to seek out mates who are like their fathers—or so I've been told..."

"Yeah, right... Getting back to Vonda and Maddy, this lookalike business had 'em fired up. Maddy said she'd get in touch with Cameron and try to get more information on his family, so she and Vonda traded email addresses."

"Are they… ah… divorced? She and this doctor?"

"Never married. He was an anthropology major at Stanford University in California. In the summer of 1994 he was in the field researching primitive iconography for their undergraduate theses. They had permission to investigate petroglyph sites on Maddy's family's ranch—Falling Waters—in northwestern Montana. The sites were in remote canyons accessible only by horseback, so the team hired local high school kids as guides and gofers—that's how he met Maddy."

"But weren't you on that same ranch at the same time?"

"We're talking hundreds of thousands of acres, Dad… I was working cattle maybe thirty or forty miles away. Our paths never crossed."

"Go on."

"Well... as you can imagine... with teenagers and college kids camping out together for weeks on end, the inevitable occurred. There was more than one unintended pregnancy by the end of summer but no one raised a fuss about it—babies are considered community property and everyone pitches in to help raise them. Maddy was able to complete high school and go on to college."

"The father didn't offer to marry the girl?" Steve interrupted.

"No... and for the usual reason—he was already married."

"I see."

"To give him credit, he acknowledged paternity and accepted financial responsibility. He remains on good terms with Maddy, pays child support and helps with major expenses such as college tuition. Rowan has a good relationship with his dad and sees him a couple of times a year. Anyway, as soon as Maddy got home, she got on the horn to Robert's wife, Margarita.

"Rita said he was out of the country in the field someplace and she didn't know when he'd be back. After Maddy explained the situation—Rowan, Pallas... _me_ —and why she needed more information, Rita told her Robert was adopted. She was surprised Maddy hadn't ever been aware of that—all Maddy'd ever known about his background was that he'd been brought over from England as an infant when his parents emigrated.

"Rita said she knew there were documents but that she'd never seen them—wouldn't have needed to unless some health issue came up with the children where a family medical history was needed. There are three other children… girls. When Robert's mother passed a few years ago he'd put all her things in a rental storage unit until he could get around to sorting them out. Rita said that there weren't any papers in their home files or safe deposit box so most likely they were in a box in that storage unit… and she'd go look for them.

"It took Rita a while to locate the right box. She scanned whatever documents she found and emailed them to Maddy who forwarded them to us. So right away Maddy and Vonda started investigating.

"Maddy holds a doctorate in bioethics from University of Washington-Seattle. As an alumnus she has access to network resources not available to the general public, and special research privileges, too. Vonda's masters from UCLA gets her alumni privileges there as well. Between the two of them, it took only a couple more weeks to get into the UK data banks, and that was just the beginning..."

"The beginning of what?" Steve demanded. "What has all this got to do with us... or with me?" A defensive impatience was starting to seep out.

 **Jesse poured himself another drink,** holding it up in a toast. "Here's to history biting you in the shorts!"

An odd toast, Steve thought, gulping the contents of his glass as well and reaching for the scotch, feeling a chill of premonition descending on his shoulders. "What do you mean?"

As liquid bravado blitzed through his veins, Jesse knew there was no way to sugarcoat what he had to say. "Robert Ross Cameron—born Robert Steven Ross—is your son."

Steeled for another explosion, Jesse forced himself to look directly at his father. Steve was sitting perfectly still, his face expressionless, his dark eyes as black and hard as anthracite. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, brittle voice Jesse had never heard before. And that's when he knew he was witnessing something he'd never before experienced... what his mother had once tried to describe as 'the red mist'... which she'd warned signaled imminent violent, uncontrollable rage.

"These allegations are preposterous. You're mistaken. You can't go around saying things like this. What if your mother'd heard you?" His voice was low and threatening.

"Oh... she's gonna hear about it... one way or another." Jesse was surprised he was able to respond so casually without his voice cracking. This was the most scared of his father he'd ever been.

 **Jesse could count on one hand** the number of times in his life when he'd defied his father on a major issue and won. Going to UCLA had been one of them. Steve had been adamant in his refusal to be any part of that. But he hadn't reckoned on his son's determination, nor his wife's support of that scheme. The parents in turn had had a bitter set-to over it. As a child Jesse had been enthralled by the concept of personal computing and programming. He'd followed the meteoric rise of its two best-known developers—Bill Gates and Steve Jobs—with idolatrous devotion. He'd set his sights on UCLA while still a preteen and wouldn't be deterred, no matter how hard his father railed against it. A week after obtaining his leaving certificate he'd packed a duffel and bought a ticket to Los Angeles—having accomplished all the preparations himself... obtaining a student visa, arranging loans and grants, organizing a part-time job and a place to live. The first two years had been rough, but he'd hung in there... with his mother's secret financial assistance—something he'd never divulged to his father and never would. Only two other persons had known about that—Yvonne and her father.

Jesse knew this was going to be one of those face-offs. He couldn't back down now—too much was at stake.

"Do you have solid evidence to prove this... this absurd notion?"

" _Incontrovertible_ evidence, Dad... so don't shoot me... I'm just the messenger."

 **FROM ATLANTA TO NEW YORK**

 _ **Elayne and Sally allowed**_ as how they would be pleased to accept the company's offer. An electric cart arrived to convey them to the concourse and one of the flight attendants dispatched to personally guide them to their choice of facility, which turned out to be the spa. The steward suggested that once they concluded their activities there, if they would then proceed to the lounge someone, if not himself, would come collect them when it was time to return to the plane.

As there were no further communiqués from their colleague in Yorkshire, Elayne and Sally entertained themselves as best they could in the interval. Boredom was not so much a problem for Sally... mother of six and grandmother of a multitude, veteran of untold hours of waiting—principals' outer offices, hospital waiting rooms, courtrooms, various auditoria... it was all the same to her. Elayne, mother of none with little experience in having to wait for anything, commenced to griping with a relentless monotony that made Sally want to scream.

"Suck it up!" Sally gritted savagely through clenched teeth. "It's your fault we have to travel this way and if you don't shut up about it I'm getting on the next plane home and _you_ can deal with _your_ problem your own self. Go for a walk. Read a book. Take a nap. Just shut up already!"

Elayne gave her a wounded look but ceased and desisted, eventually falling asleep in the lounge chair with her head tilted back and her mouth open, snoring loudly. Sally shook her head. She loved her aunt dearly but marveled at the woman's capacity to embarrass her even while sleeping. As arranged, an attendant sought them out when it was time to re-embark and they were re-settled in their original seats before the rest of the passengers arrived.

 _ **A replacement contingent**_ marched smartly onboard in lockstep—fourteen grim-lipped, granite-jawed, Rayban-sporting, school-tied, black-suited, pointy-shoed gentlemen whom the two ladies at first took to be clandestine government operatives on their way to an important symposium on terrorism. As it happened, they were soft drink sales and marketing executives bound for a national bottlers' association trade show in the Big Apple—six Coke pushers, six Pepsi peddlers and two Royal Crown reps.

As the fourteen men settled in and professional affiliations were made public, battle lines were swiftly demarcated. Spiritous libations were summoned. Jackets were removed. Ties were loosened. Collars unbuttoned. Briefcases and manpurses flung heedlessly under seats. More drinks were called for. Rude jokes concerning each side's product desirability were bandied about and these quickly escalated to personal remarks of an inflammatory nature. Outnumbered, the two RC men abstained from the verbal free-for-all and migrated to the forward section hoping to find protection amongst the women while the stewards hid in the aft head.

Any further conversation now being impossible, Sally and Elayne settled back to enjoy the entertainment—bellowing, chest-pounding, grunting, ground-pawing and attendant forms of male primate posturing—until about halfway to NYC at which point they donned noise-reduction headsets and sleep masks and tried to ignore the cacophony.

 _ **Distance from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport to John F. Kennedy International Airport: 760 miles**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9:**_ **THE THEORY OF ROSS RELATIVITY**

 **Jesse heaved a deep sigh.** "Let's start with the name... Ross. R.O.S.S."

"Common enough name," Steve snorted. "And there must millions of people in the world with the surname 'Ross'."

"Maybe... but only one Robert Steven Ross born 14th June 1974 at Charity Hospital in Truro, Cornwall, to Bettina Carlotta Shaw, age sixteen, unmarried, ethnicity Romanichal, no fixed abode. The father's name is listed as Steven Paul Ross, age twenty, unmarried, ethnicity Caucasian, last known location Follyfoot Farm in West Yorkshire.

"The mother abandoned the baby at the hospital and vanished without a trace. Normally he would have gone into care, but he was temporarily fostered out to Hamish and Helen Cameron, an older couple from Achnacarry who were desperate to adopt but who'd been turned down several times on account of their age. Shortly after they got hold of the baby, they did a runner to the States where no one questioned whose it was. By the time a caseworker back in Truro got around to checking on them, they were long gone.

"There's an original British birth certificate for Robert Steven Ross and an American affidavit dated three weeks later attesting to the birth of Robert Ross Cameron, which was what the parents used to get the child into the country. The US immigration service accepts affidavits in lieu of certificates, especially for infants. They're ridiculously simple forms... easily forged.

"What _wasn't_ there were any legal papers formalizing an adoption. That's when Yvonne and Maddy decided they needed to do some heavy-duty detecting. They've been chiseling away at it for almost two months now."

"It could all still be a mistake..." Steve countered. "The mother could've given the brat the first name that came to mind, just to keep the social workers happy and busy long enough so she could run off. Anyone could have been the father."

With a sigh Jesse reached over and clicked open another folder which displayed a dismayingly long list of pdfs and word files. "Every single one of these documents supports what I've just told you. Feel free to inspect them right now if that's what..."

Jesse stopped in mid-sentence as he watched his father's face flush deep red as he looked away toward a far corner of the room. Steve was gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. The only sound in the room was the ticktocking of the regulator clock. Jesse wondered if his father was still weighing whether to deny the possibility he could've fathered an illegitimate child... or that he'd ever had a liaison with the gypsy girl.

 **Finally, Steve spoke so softly** Jesse almost couldn't hear. "How did you hear about... _her?_ "

"Tina you mean? Mom told Julia years ago when they had their facts-of-life talk, and Jules told me. As soon as the name and description came up, I remembered that and told Vonda."

"I see." Steve indeed was tempted to try bluffing it out... but if Dora already knew... _had_ known for years... there was no way he could lie about it now. He opened his mouth to speak but Jesse cut him off.

"Robert had to've been conceived in August 1973... right about the time you were messing around with that gypsy girl... and that other one, too—that Wendy something who married Lewis Hammond. Oh... don't look so shocked... Mom's known about that all along, too. Besides, you don't have to justify your actions to me. I did my share of fooling around before I met Vonda."

"Nevertheless," Steve said slowly. "It's important that you understand... I loved your mother with all my heart and soul even then—but with the class barriers and all, I never dreamt there was a chance for me... for us. And we were so young... we lacked the skills to communicate our feelings. We were so often angry with each other over misunderstandings. Your mother hurt me deeply on more than one occasion—not always intentionally, of course, because she didn't know how much I cared for her. I didn't know how to tell her. Then Tina came along. She was pretty and willing and I was feeling sorry for myself. My God, I had no idea she was only fifteen... she looked and acted older. She said she was eighteen and had been held back in school because her family moved around so much. She was here only a few weeks, and after she left I never saw her or heard from her again. I had no idea... but if all that's true... if the authorities had all that information, why didn't they try to contact me?"

" **They did, actually...** do you recall a Dorothy Corbett?" Jesse prompted.

"There was a Mrs. Corbett... she was my case worker when I went to... after I got into legal difficulties." Although he'd never discussed with the children his imprisonment so long ago as a juvenile violent offender, Dora had—only to illustrate a point about socially unacceptable behavior and its consequences, even if the perpetrator was seeking to prevent wrongdoing by another party.

"That's the one. A social worker in Cornwall interviewed Mrs. Corbett by telephone and was advised that Steven Paul Ross had a criminal record and was unsuited to assume custody of an infant. She was probably trying to protect _you,_ Dad, knowing you were no position to take on a baby... and to keep you from being arrested again. She also said you'd moved on and left no forwarding address. Either she lied or this happened while you were off in Leeds. A transcript of the phone call is in the case file. The investigation was dropped in the best interests of the child's welfare, so that's where they left it and social services chose not to pursue the matter. Vonda and Maddy have a theory, though..."

"Which is?"

" **It was a charity hospital, after all...** they're usually awash in unwanted babies, and this one being half gypsy... well, you know... prejudice and all that. The people who held the county purse strings probably didn't want to foot the expense of a search for possible other relatives or for underwriting a legal retrieval process for an overseas kidnapping. They certainly wouldn't have wanted to squander financial resources by attempting to prosecute you for statutory rape when the complainant had disappeared. It was easier and more economical to just let it go."

"What kind of mother walks away from her child..." Steve muttered, and Jesse knew that the passage of sixty years had not diminished the pain his father felt at having been abandoned himself. As for Dora, the retribution she wrought on her own parents for their emotional and physical detachment from her during her childhood was that she'd abjured them from her adult life. They'd never seen or met any of their grandchildren.

Jesse continued. "She wouldn't have had much of a choice, Dad. Her clan wouldn't have accepted an unwed mother with a half- _gadjo_ baby. Gypsies have strict moral codes when it comes their own families and bloodlines. Our guess is that her folks probably hid her away until after the baby was born, swore the whole family to secrecy, then married her off as quickly as possible into another clan that'd never be the wiser."

Steve was struck by a sudden thought. "How were Yvonne and this Maddy able to access that much information? Aren't adoption records supposed to be sealed?"

Jesse sighed. "You underestimate the power of the Internet and two determined women. Records are sealed only _after_ a legal adoption has taken place. And that's the point—Robert was never _legally_ adopted by the Camerons so technically he was still a Ross. His abduction—because that's what it amounted to—went to the 'cold case' archives."

"But doesn't that bring his American citizenship into question?" Steve asked.

" **Yeah... that could have been a disaster** but it was taken care of as soon as Maddy relayed what they'd found out. Robert and his lawyer met in closed session with a federal court judge who ruled—in light of the circumstances—that he's a naturalized citizen. But can you imagine the emotional distress all this has caused him?"

"Do the children—this Rowan... and Pallas—do they know about this?"

"They didn't know all of it until two weeks ago... we wanted to be sure we had all the facts before we told them. All they knew was that their mothers were trying to establish a common ancestor somewhere."

"And what was their reaction?"

"Apparently they were thinking they might be third or fourth cousins... something like that. When they found out they were actually first cousins with a common grandfather... well, Pallas was pretty upset about it. Rowan didn't seem to be... he's one to keep his emotions on a tight rein and off his face. In fact, it was _his_ idea to get the DNA tests as confirmation..."

"Hang on... _what DNA tests?!"_

"Robert, Rowan and I submitted samples a few weeks ago. The results came back yesterday and Vonda called me late last night—that's why I had to wait until today to talk to you. Indications are in the eighty-percentile range that Rowan and I are closely related. Rob's sample came back as a ninety-plus in relation to me. The technician said that a sample from you would probably seal the deal... that is, yield a high enough percentage to be accepted as legal proof."

"You've met with this... Robert Cameron?"

"I haven't, no. But last month Vonda and Madeleine and the kids flew to California, just for the weekend. Vonda said that she had pretty much the same reaction to seeing him as Maddy did to meeting me. It was like seeing a ghost, is how she described it."

Going back to the folder with the jpegs, Jesse clicked on the last image in the list. In the group shot Vonda and Pallas stood to one side with Rowan and Madeleine on the other. In the middle, a smiling man Steve could have sworn was Jesse—or himself—had he not, now, known otherwise.

" **Maddy and Rowan are looking forward** to meeting you and Mom and the rest of the family. Robert, not so much... says there's nothing to be gained but hurt feelings by dredging up unpleasantness from the past."

"And I'm with him on that. The past should stay buried... or, at least, not dragged out in public for the world to know about. And don't look at me like that. I'm _not_ doing any DNA test!"

Jesse gave his father a slow, sad smile. "Dad, you've never been one to shirk responsibility... ever. It was one of the most important lessons you ever taught me... all us kids. I can't believe you'd want to sweep this under the rug and pretend nothing's happened. Not something this important."

"Do you not realize there's no time limit on prosecution for statutory rape? I could be facing prison time," Steve said grimly.

Jesse wanted to laugh but dared not. "Let's assume you're fairly safe, Dad," he finally said drily. "I mean, it's been forty years..."

"Why'd you have to bring this up now? Couldn't it at least have waited until after the party?"

"Dad... there's no way this can be kept secret..."

"I know, I know... but it couldn't have come at a worse time, Jesse. You know that. Your mother is... I suppose the word I'm looking for is 'fragile.' This kind of news..."

"What do you mean, fragile? Is she ill? She's seems perfectly healthy to me." The interruption was sharp.

"No... not that I know of... she's just... not been herself lately. Seems to be off in a daydream quite a lot. Maybe it's some sort of midlife crisis..."

"Here's a thought... why don't you try _asking_ her?"

"I have," Steve said miserably. "She says I'm imagining things."

" **You may well be, then.** Look, Mom's a trooper," Jesse stated flatly. "She'll deal with this head-on, just like she always has. Vonda and I talked it over and we both feel that the sooner this is all out in the open, the better. Don't forget... if Pallas marries this kid, he'll be your grandson-in-law as well your grandson."

At the mention of 'cousin', a worrisome thought popped into Steve's head. "But... surely this relationship can't be allowed to continue?"

"Why not? Marriage between cousins is accepted in most societies... even traditional. It's legal in most American states and we're okay with it. Hell, it's been going on here for centuries. And they're only half-first cousins, after all."

"What about the boy's father? What does he have to say about it?"

"Nothing. So far, he's not involved."

"How can he _not_ be?" Steve insisted. "I would certainly expect to be involved in any such decision. Why did he agree to a DNA test if he doesn't want any part of us?"

Jesse drew in a deep breath and puffed his cheeks out. "Good question. Guilt, maybe? Plain old curiosity? Maddy says Robert would've spoiled the kid rotten if she'd allowed it. And let me point out... you're being more than a little hypocritical here... wanting to keep this unexpected son of yours at arm's length but complaining if he does the same to you."

"That's different."

"No, it's not."

A break in the conversation turned into an uncomfortable stretch of silence.

" **How am I going to tell your mother**... she'll feel so betrayed!"

"The way I see it, it's not a betrayal if there's no existing commitment in place. This happened before you and Mom hooked up, didn't it?" Jesse spread both hands. "So it doesn't count as cheating, right? I'm sure she'll understand."

"Isn't there some way we can keep this from her... at least until after the party?"

"I'm sorry. I truly am, but the camel's nose is already under the tent. Besides, I don't think Mom is quite as clueless as you seem to think."

"What do you mean? What've you told her?" Steve looked up in alarm, with a fire in his eyes that Jesse hadn't seen in decades.

"I haven't said anything to Mom… er…Mum... just remembering something else Jules told me about what Mum told her about the gypsy girl... that this Tina had a 'noble soul' and lied about having a fiancé in order to put you off, because she knew Mum was in love with you and didn't want to come between you."

"Your mother said that?"

"According to Jules... and there's more..." Here Jesse grinned. "Mum said you and Tina were having it off in the woods but that she wasn't meant to know about that because everyone thought she needed sheltering from the ugly truth. So you see, I don't think she's gonna be anywhere near as surprised or shocked as you seem to think she'll be."

Steve was appalled. "All these years and she's never said a word... now I feel worse than ever. I never thought she'd find out."

Jesse laughed. "Mum always said you had the most mobile expression of anyone she's ever known. Every thought that comes into your head, every feeling that bubbles up... it's right there on your face for all the world to see. She probably knew the minute you walked out of the woods, or their camp... whatever... exactly what you'd been up to."

" **Who else knows about this?"** Steve asked glumly.

"So far Vonda and myself, Rowan's parents and the kids themselves... and now you. Faye might have some idea—I don't know how much her sister's told her. DeeDee and Tania probably don't, but I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"What are we going to do?"

Jesse lifted both eyebrows. "Whaddya mean _'we'_ , white man? My part's done. The ball's in your court now. Look, I know this's been a lot for you to take in all at once. I'm going to leave you to think it through and look over those documents. The thing is, you're gonna have to tell Mum..."

"Can't do it, son." Steve shook his head. "I just can't."

Jesse was adamant. "You can and you will, and here's why. Vonda and the girls will be here next Saturday. I'll be picking them up at the airport that afternoon. Rowan and his mother will be with them."

Steve was aghast. "No... no..."

 _ **Okay, it's tough love time,**_ Jesse was thinking. "Dad, I want you to think very carefully about Robert Cameron and what he must be feeling right about now. It was probably bad enough finding out he wasn't who he'd always thought he was. But to find out, _now_ , that he was a throwaway baby... illegitimate _and_ abandoned? Since you were abandoned yourself you can't tell me you haven't thought about it, that it's never bothered you... what your life might have been like if your father hadn't died and your mother hadn't run off and left you. Even though Robert's made a success of himself—just like you did—he's probably just as upset as you are at having all this dumped on him. Being a cultural anthropologist he probably knows all about gypsies—how they live, what people think of them—and is grateful for the fact that he was spared having to grow up in that kind of environment.

"Think about the position you were in as a teenager, how alone you were. It might be too late to establish any kind of relationship with him but you have a chance here to break a cycle of emotional neglect and make things right with Rowan. And—Dad––not to put too fine a point on it, he's probably the only grandson you and Mum're ever going to have."

"But... I don't know what to do," Steve stammered.

Jesse said, more harshly than he'd intended, "That's your problem to work out, Dad. They'll be Wednesday week. Get used to the idea. If you don't tell her before then, someone else is sure to blab. I'm leaving the flash drive with you so you can go over those documents at your leisure. We'll talk again later, okay?"

Jesse left the study, closing the door gently behind him and praying that next week would not bring disaster.

 **AT KENNEDY AIRPORT, NEW YORK**

 _ **By the time the plane**_ neared its final destination, the men had consumed enough Jim Beam and Jack Daniels adulterated with their respective carbonated products of choice to float a medium-size yacht out of dry-dock. They were now all bosom buddies with their arms draped around one another's shoulders and showing off pictures of their kids, wives and girlfriends from their wallets.

From the cockpit came the announcement that they were on final approach to JFK and would soon be assuming their position among the layer-cake stacks of planes awaiting their turn to land.

Elayne and Sally leisurely retrieved and stashed their personal effects, returning their seats to the upright position and strapping in as instructed. The two attendants flitted fore and aft collecting loose items and persuading the beverage representatives that party time was over. Below them spread the enormous expanse of Kennedy airport, its circular array of terminals glittering in the night like diamonds strung on a necklace.

And then they waited... and waited.

 **At last released from its holding pattern,** the Embraer began its descent, rolling up to Terminal 8 only fifteen minutes later than the pilot had predicted. Elayne and Sally, closest to the passenger gangway, made a fast getaway. With the VIP escort Elayne had previously arranged, they were whisked away to the British Airways concourse at Terminal 7. Paying a flying visit to XPress Spa, they changed into permanent-press polyester pullovers, comfortably loose stretchy slacks and sensible flats, and combed their hair into casual chignons. With less than an hour before boarding, they settled into BA's Terraces Lounge where they promptly placed drinks orders and hauled out their smartphones to catch up on text messages and emails.

Outside the plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac a light snow was beginning to accumulate on flat surfaces, but not enough to cause concern that their flight out might be delayed or cancelled. Service vehicles with revolving lights atop their cabs skittered tirelessly among the serried ranks of jets. Baggage handlers, mechanics and ramp marshals with their colorful batons jogged in all directions, bundled up against the cold.

Uncharacteristically subdued, Elayne put her phone down on the table and gazed out into night.

"What are you thinking about, Auntie?" Sally asked softly.

"This whole bidness with Steve turnin' out to be Robert's daddy an' Rowan's granddaddy. How could've I missed that?"

"It was bound to come out sooner or later," said Sally consoled.

"Just the same, I shoulda paid more attention to the past, not just the future."

"Even if we'd had foreknowledge of the relationship, it wouldn't have altered the outcome of the prophecy. This just adds a new wrinkle to our worries. Did Dorothy mention how Steve took the news?"

"Not well. Not well at all."

" **How do think this will affect our mission?"** Sally asked.

"Right now Dora's focus is divided between getting' ready for the anniversary party an' tryin' to sort out the reasons for her current inner turmoil. Steve's news is gonna knock 'er for a loop. There was a time—when she was much younger—that somethin' like this woulda shocked her into immobility, an' there's no gettin' around it that her feelins're gonna be hurt, but I believe she'll get past that quickly an' start concentrating on factorin' these new elements into the existin' family."

"Seems to me," Sally said thoughtfully, "that Dora's going to be so preoccupied that she either won't be able to spare the time we need to work with her, or that she'll have so much on her mind that she won't able to absorb what she needs to know. If only Jesse'd waited another day or two, we would've had a chance to get at her before Steve does."

"We might yet have that chance..." Elayne tapped her smartphone with a forefinger. "Accordin' to Dorothy, Steve was resistin' havin' to tell Dora even though Jesse insisted he was gonna have to..."

"Of course he has to!" Sally exclaimed. "How can he not?!"

"Oh... I'm sure deep down he knows that, but it's a normal human response... wantin' to put off unpleasantness as long as possible. Truth to tell, I'm feelin' more sorry for Steve right now than for Dora, even though it's mostly for her benefit we're goin' there."

"Why should you?" Sally scoffed, "He's certainly old enough to understand actions have consequences."

" **Of course he is, honey...** _ **now**_ **.** But when I first met him he was just eighteen years old, with a sorry childhood behind him an' a bleak future ahead. I was more Dora's friend then an' didn't have much respect for him. I thought she could do better... but she loved him an' then, a'course, there was the prophecy. I've watched the two of 'em grow up together for over forty years. I value my friendship with Dora an' have come to love her like a daughter. Steve has proved hisself to be a much more worthy individual than I ever thought he could or would be an' I've come to love him as well.

"Dora long ago left behind the sorrows of her childhood, but Steve ain't. Oh, he'd druther die than admit it... or maybe he ain't even consciously aware of it... but that frightened adolescent I first met? He still exists... deep down inside but ready to leap into a defensive posture anytime he feels threatened."

"Is that how you believe he's reacting now?"

"Absolutely. The big difference between man an' boy is that instead of immediately jumping in with fists up an' brain in neutral, he's first gonna have a long think about how he wants to handle this."

 **After a few minutes of contemplative silence,** during which they polished off their margaritas and ordered reloads, Sally commented, "I got a message from Madeleine saying all's quiet on the western front for the time being. She says both she and Rowan sounded Robert out about maybe changing his mind and coming to meet his father after all, but he declined. Rowan's not too pleased with his dad. Somehow he's got it in his head that it's important they meet Steve together."

"We could always... you know... _arrange_ for Robert's mind to change."

"Oh no! No no no! We're done with that, you hear me?"

"Then why'd you even bother to come along, Sally? I was countin' on you to help me. I'm gettin' old, girl. My powers is wanin'... I can feel it."

"You _are_ old, Elle... and just as troublesome as you ever were. That's why I'm here—to keep you out of it. So don't waste your time trying your 'poor old pitiful me' routine with me," Sally said. "Why don't you give Dottie a call and let her know our ETA is back on schedule?"

"Aw honey... they's five hours ahead a us. A phone call in the middle a the night'd only get 'em stirred up. Hey, ya reckon we could take some go-cups a this stuff onboard?"

Elayne the redneck witch was back.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10:**_ **WHEN THE CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST**

 **Steve remained in his study** for several hours thereafter, alternately pondering his predicament, raging at the fates that had dropped this unsavory development in his lap, despairing of an equitable solution, and praying for a heavenly intervention. One by one he called up the documents detailing the results of his youthful transgression, scouring each one for an obvious falsehood, any hint of forgery, some reasonable doubt that would point the finger of guilt elsewhere. They appeared to be quite genuine—in any case there were too many of them to disregard as a practical joke.

Among them was a Word file labeled 'Read Me!' which turned out to be a message from his daughter-in-law Yvonne explaining that she would be bringing the certified and/or notarized hardcopies of everything available from the hospital and social services in Truro, but that backup duplicates existed in digital format in several places. She would not be offended if he wished to verify their authenticity on his own, and here she had provided contact names, phone numbers and email addresses.

Steve returned to the images folder and revisited the damning pictures. There was no denying the family resemblance. He tried to envision what sort of a person his 'American' son would be... very much alike—or very much different—from his other four children? Despite his earlier knee-jerk rejection, Steve found himself Googling himselfRobert Ross Cameron. He didn't get very far at first—all three names being fairly common. But by adding 'cultural anthropologist' to the search field he began making headway.

 **On the University of California's official website** Steve found a bio for Doctor Cameron with an impressive curriculum vitae and links to publications to which Robert Cameron regularly contributed articles. Several YouTube interviews revealed an erudite, articulate scholar with a wry sense of humor. Doctor Cameron was a published author with four books to his credit, a regular contributor to journals of both the Society of Cultural Anthropology and the Anthropological Society of Oxford as well as _National Geographic_ magazine, and had served as commentator on several televised documentaries produced by the _Discovery_ and _History_ channels. The more Steve looked, the more difficult it became to wrap his mind around the fact that this middle-aged man could be—was—his own flesh and blood.

Returning to the flash drive window, another folder caught Steve's eye— _Video Timeline._ The first item within featured a child seated at a Yamaha C3 baby grand piano, determinedly picking his way through what he recognized, even without the caption, as Bach's Prelude in C Major from _The Well-Tempered Clavier_. Steve had never been exposed to classical music as a youngster and was almost out of his teens when he was introduced to the wonders of the master composers by way of transistor radio. He was well into his mid-twenties when he had accompanied Dora to his first live classical music concert and had been a devotee ever since.

Steve skimmed through the dozens of subsequent clips, obviously taped in a home environment and captioned in chronological order. It was like fast-forwarding a filmstrip documenting Rowan's metamorphosis from small boy to young adult along with increasing skill at the keyboard.

 **The next folder—entitled Glacier Institute—** held videos produced by the Department of Music & Drama in various practice rooms and on stage. Uploaded only two weeks previously, the last clip brought home with finality Steve's newly revealed status... and predicament. The caption read: _Voice Recital - Rowan Cameron and Pallas Ross sing 'If I Loved You' from 'Carousel' (Rodgers & Hammerstein).'_

Pallas' pure crystalline voice was no surprise—Steve had of course heard her sing many times before... but to hear it blending so perfectly in duet with Rowan's strong, clear tenor raised goose bumps. It also brought on a flashback... albeit a minor one... of a magical evening long ago with himself, Dora, Ron and Slugger gathered in the old family room at Hollin Hall, listening to someone else playing and singing in that same voice. Steve could only speculate that such talent must have come down from Rowan's mother's side of the family as, aside from Pallas, there were no musical abilities on the Ross side.

One of the few items Dora had insisted on moving from the farmhouse to Follymoor was the battered upright piano that had originally graced a corner of the kitchen between the doors to the scullery and stairwell. All four children had been unwillingly subjected to piano lessons but none had ever really taken to the instrument. Though mostly untouched in years, it'd been refinished and occupied an honored space in the greatroom and Dora had it tuned regularly in memoriam to her late uncle. Had it been—all these years—a talisman of things to come?

 **Moving away from the computer,** Steve freshened his drink and stood looking out the window... how in hell was he going to approach his wife with this mind-blowing alteration in the fabric of their family? Unlike Jesse, Steve wasn't so confident of a rational response. Dora'd always disliked change... unless she was the one initiating it. With maturity she'd become better at adapting to change coming at her from outside her comfort zone, so long as it arrived in small easily-absorbed increments over a structured period of time. She hated big changes, big surprises, and more often than not would lash out in anger and irrationality. He had to come up with a way to introduce the subject without immediately provoking such a backlash.

 _And I still don't know what's been bugging her lately!_ Prior to Jesse's dropping _his_ bombshell, Steve'd been morosely contemplating Dora's recent distress and the unknown causes thereof. As does any husband faced with an unhappy wife and no earthly idea what she's so upset about or why he might be at fault, Steve knew better than to ask Dora outright. To do so would be to run the risk of having his head bitten off ('If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you!'). Conversely, feigning obliviousness would incur an equally painful outpouring of wrath ('You just don't care!'). Either way, he was firmly lodged between a rock and a hard spot. It was almost easier to first tackle this new, unwelcome problem... almost. _At least I know where I stand in relation to the facts!_

 **Steve'd always diagrammed his lectures** prior to fleshing them out, so he started his presentation in the same fashion. Returning to the computer, he opened an Excel spreadsheet containing two columns: Column A: positives, Column B: negatives. After a half hour Column B was ahead by many entries while Column A reflected only one, his trump card—acquisition of a grandson. Of course, it wasn't quite the same as anticipating the arrival of a newborn with a shock of dark hair, to cuddle and spoil and celebrate life's milestones with. No... this one was fully grown and not even biologically hers... but perhaps she could be deluded into overlooking those minor details. _Fat chance of that._

Outside the closed door to the chamber of desperation, household activities were proceeding apace. Miz Bee and the maid had returned from town with a bootful of groceries, which Jesse unloaded for them and helped put away before offering his services as auxiliary kitchen skivvy. For once Miz Bee took him up on it and set him to work alongside Denise, peeling and chopping. Dottie'd emerged from her afternoon siesta and was pitching in by hulling strawberries.

Michael and Trini turned up with carrier bags filled with newspaper-wrapped parcels, including a pair of delicate porcelain teacups with matching saucers—each in a different pattern—for Martha Barton who collected them, and two Staffordshire china dog figurines for Vera Barton. Blatant bribery, Jesse accused his brother and got a wicked grin in return. By the time they were joined by Ian and Jason, with Ron on their heels, Miz Bee'd had quite enough of men in her kitchen and booted them all out.

 **Realizing the pool enclosure** was for once blessedly clear of women and children, the men decided that beers at poolside would constitute a pleasant conclusion to the afternoon while waiting for their better halves. Miz Bee sent out a foam cooler with cans on ice. When met with the complaint that they preferred bottles, she frostily reminded them that glassware was _verboten_ on the pool deck.

"I'll go get Dad," Michael announced, only to be forestalled by Jesse.

"Dad's not having a good day... let's not bother him right now. If he comes out of his cave, Miz Bee'll send him along." Michael raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, respecting that his elder brother generally had a better assessment than he did of their father's mood at any given moment.

An hour later, Denise was fetching something from one of the storerooms in the hall when she thought to check on the pool party to see if they needed anything. To her surprise the glass door was locked from the outside. There was too much condensation on the glass to get a clear view outwards... but clear enough to catch a glimpse of someone's pale, unclothed buttocks. Her face afire, the girl scuttled back to the kitchen gasping, "They're all... nekkid!"

Miz Bee took one look at Denise's face and released one of her rare grunts of amusement.

"We should have warned her, Martha..." Dottie snickered. "Boys plus beer... if I was fifty years younger I'd be out there with them!"

"You and me both!" the usually staid housekeeper retorted.

Denise was mortified.

 **Afternoon lengthened into early evening** and the female constituents straggled home, footsore and burdened with carrier bags. Ever prudent Miz Bee got on the intercom and told the pool partiers in no uncertain terms to make themselves decent. Last to arrive were Callie and the two younger Stryker girls who were quickly taken in charge by Denise, to be fed in the breakfast nook and temporarily bedded downstairs until their parents were ready to leave.

With fourteen at the dinner table, conversation flowed freely and no one paid much attention when Steve excused himself early on the grounds of headache. Miz Bee offered to stay past her usual quitting time but Dora shooed her out along with Denise and Violet, who were catching rides back to their digs. Callie, the Strykers and Doyles were next to depart, leaving Dora and Julia to load the dishwasher as Michael and Trini bussed the table. Brandishing a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner, Jesse went around with a rag and a roll of paper towels, wiping down countertops. The dogs were doing their part as well, quartering the carpeting under the table and the kitchen floor, ensuring no errant crumb went unnoticed.

Unlike most mothers of her era, Dora had never categorized domestic chores by gender. In the Ross home, everyone had to take his or her turn at performing them... thus, one was just as likely to find the two boys helping clean up the kitchen and emptying waste baskets as encounter one of the girls washing a car while the other pushed a lawnmower. Both boys knew their way around a needle and thread and a sewing machine—not well enough to assemble a garment but able to sew on a button or effect minor repairs. Both girls could rewire a table lamp or change out a flat tire without breaking a sweat. And everyone did his or her share of stable chores.

When all was quiet, Dora retreated to her study to chip away at the party plans. By the time she finally staggered upstairs, everyone else had already wandered off to their respective bedrooms. Steve was sound asleep—or at least appeared to be. After completing her nightly ablutions and sliding into the bed beside him, it crossed her mind that they hadn't exchanged a private word the entire day.

 **FROM NEW YORK TO LONDON**

 _ **Cruising at 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean...**_ in bulkhead Seats A-1 and A-2 in the first-class section of a London-bound British Airways Boeing 747-400, aunt and niece emerged from the alcohol-induced stupor into which they had fallen directly upon takeoff. Sally was startled into full wakefulness by Elayne's emitting an eardrum-piercing whistle that caused the attendant in the galley on the other side of the hatch to drop an empty carafe with a clang and come rushing out.

"Yo, garçon! How 'bout a Bloody Mary over here _s'il vous plaît!_ "

Checking the time—they'd been aloft only a little over an hour, Sally hissed, "Aunt Elayne... really! Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Speak for yerself, babydoll! Hair a the dog an' all that."

The flustered attendant delivered the drink promptly and began distributing snacks and menu cards preparatory to taking their dinner orders. Soon, activity in the galley indicated the evening repast was about to be served. As their meals were set before them, Elayne glanced at the dainty brace of parsley-and lemon-garnished lamb chops decorating the Royal Doulton china on Sally's tray. "Uck. I'd just as soon gnaw on a candle. Want me to change that into a nice little filet mignon like mine? Wouldn't be no trouble."

"Don't even think about it!" Sally warned sternly. "Not in public... and certainly not on an airplane. And would it kill you to speak like an educated person... not to mention act like the cultured lady you're supposed to be instead of some bayou peckerhead?"

"Like I give a flyin' flip!" Elayne humphed, turning her attention to her own meal.

 **They ate quickly with little talk.** An attendant came to whisk away their trays. Bobbing in her wake a second one dispensed moist wipes in foil packets and warm fluffy hand towels. A third brought them their Palo Cortado sherry digestifs. As the passengers in first class gradually settled in to enjoy their various forms of entertainment with earphones or noise-cancelling headsets firmly in place, the two witches were free to converse more openly.

Twirling her goblet between thumb and forefinger, Sally said, "You know, even if we're successful in countering the effects of your failed spell, this new development could blow us out of the water if Steve and Dora end up in a big fight over it."

"Don't be such a pessimist! Dora ain't unreasonable... even _she_ hasta admit what a man does afore he marries don't count."

"Except when there's long-term consequences... and now that the cat's out of the bag..."

"Listen... when push comes to shove, Dora's tough as ole shoe leather... and you could never hope to meet a more forgiving soul."

"I hope you're right about that."

"I am. You'll see. No... it's Steve we gotta worry about."

"According to Madeleine, Jesse's not the confrontational type. Are you sure he was the right choice for the job?"

"He was the _only_ choice, an' don't underestimate him... he's got his momma's stubborn streak an' his daughter's future happiness is at stake here."

"You do know them better than I do," Sally conceded.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11:**_ **THE SUGAR SHACK**

 **Ron and Hazel Stryker lived a few miles** from Follyfoot in the outskirts of the former village of Tockwith, now a thriving township. The lovely but small Tudor-style residence Ron'd inherited from his father'd been replaced by a succession of ever-larger residences as their family had swelled to five children. Their current domicile was a Bauhaus-inspired monstrosity of rectangular boxes and cubes jammed together at odd angles on multiple levels. Built in the 1930s on ten acres of what was then pastureland, the house was deemed an unholy eyesore until the trees and foundation plantings surrounding it had grown sufficiently to hide it from public view. Older residents of the community had forgotten it existed and newer ones weren't even aware it ever had.

The Strykers just happened to be in the market for a new home and would never have seen this one except for a desperate under-quota estate agent unlocking the massive gates in the privacy fencing and leading them up the long winding drive. The house was in excellent condition despite having been vacant for several years. The agent was about to apologize for having the temerity to offer such a hideous pile when the husband gave the wife a slap on the rump and a squeeze around the shoulders while announcing, _'This is IT, honey... this is our sugar shack!'_

The astounded agent thanked his lucky stars, the agency was grateful to be divested of the white elephant, and the Strykers had their dream home. Of course, neither Ron nor Hazel'd ever been accused of possessing an overabundance of good taste. It did have a very nice garden, Dora was later heard to observe.

 **The Strykers had taken their** **après** - **dinner digestifs** to their 'Florida Room'... an imported architectural feature that combined elements of a traditional solarium with a glassed roof, screening and louvered window walls. The panels that had been opened during the afternoon were now closed but the lingering scents of autumn-blooming roses remained.

Outside, an irregularly shaped infinity pool overflowed its natural sandstone perimeter at one end to feed a cascading freshet that wound its way to the bottom of the garden. Next to the pool and enclosed in a gazebo with sliding Plexiglas panels that afforded protection during cold-weather months, a Jacuzzi hot tub wafted tendrils of steamy vapor into the air.

Ron'd just gone out to check the hot tub, which was coming up nicely and would be at optimum temp by the time their cramp-avoidance hour was up. He'd gone upstairs to change into his bathing costume while Hazel'd been penning a short list of instructions for their housekeeper to find in the morning. Then she'd gone up to put on one of today's purchases—a thong bikini that would've had her best friend and sister-in-law, not to mention her own daughter and three daughters-in-law, blushing crimson. Certainly not an item any of _them_ would even consider flaunting in public.

Hazel pirouetted in front of her husband. "Tell the truth now... does this make me look fat?"

Ron took a long draw on his Cuban Cohiba® Behike™ and exhaled a slow blue spiral upwards. He'd given up cigarettes decades ago but was allowed one cigar per day (per doctor's orders and wife's demand… and not in the house). This was the time of day he chose to enjoy it.

"Like the backside of a pregnant cow... broad as a barn door... big as a stranded whale at low tide..." he declared straight-faced. "Why, I'd bet your rear end could be seen from space!"

There was a microsecond of stunned and outraged silence before Hazel smacked him across the ear with the rolled-up copy of _Vogue_ magazine she'd been holding.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"I'll give you pregnant cow!"

 **Hazel Marie Donnelly Stryker at fifty-seven** was as trim and slim as she'd been at fifteen when they'd first met. The woman never gained an ounce though she ate like a docker. Ron, on the other hand—who'd been thin and wiry as a youngster, had started fluffing out in his thirties and it'd been a running battle ever since to keep his paunch (what Hazel referred to as 'a shed for his tools') under control. And his once luxuriant red hair had not only turned grey but had mostly turned loose. He was painfully reminded of that fact every time he viewed his best friend and blood-brother-in-law's thick, brushy salt-and-pepper crop. At one time he'd even thought of getting a hairpiece... until he saw Donald Trump on the telly looking like an orange-pancaked clown with a hunk of moldy fox fur glued to his pate.

Ron gave his wife an evil leer and waggled his eyebrows. She in turn struck a seductive pose and licked her lips lasciviously. After almost forty years of marriage, which they'd be celebrating next month, the Strykers still unabashedly enjoyed an active, inventive and mutually satisfying love life. Very often, after Mrs. Sullivan had departed the premises for the day, doors and garden gates would be deadbolted and swimsuits would come off. The Stryker children all knew better than to invade their parents' home unannounced at _any_ time of day.

Two hours later they were still playing footsie in the hot tub. Ron didn't ride much these days and hours on horseback the previous day had almost done for him... but not quite.

" **What've you got laid on** for tomorrow, darling?" Hazel asked. "Jason and Sarah are dropping off the kiddies in the morning and we're keeping them overnight. I was thinking you and I might... "

"Sorry, luv... Steve asked me to ride along with him to Kingston after lunch to take a look at some boat at Hull Marina." One of the benefits of Ron's deferred higher education was that he no longer sounded like a street tough. Occasionally, however, traces of his original accent surfaced. He sighed dramatically. "But I suppose I _could_ stay home and help you look after them instead." Mrs. Sullivan had Sundays off.

"As if!" Hazel shot back. "No. Your grandfatherly services are surplus to requirements. I'm paying Evan's girls to play nanny for their cousins so they'll be here to do the heavy lifting and running after. They've taken up babysitting as Arlene decided they could well start earning their own money for clothes and makeup. Apparently they're raking it in hand over fist. Competent sitters are in high demand."

"That's all right, then. Oh dear, dear, dear... we seem to have run out of wine! Might as well go in. Oh... by the way... don't say anything to Dora about the boat. Steve seems to think boating would make a nice new pastime for the two of them in their advancing age. It's meant to be a surprise for their anniversary..."

 **Thinking Hazel was going directly upstairs,** Ron in his terry robe padded to the kitchen and flung open the doors of their Sub-Zero® Pro 48™ built-in fridge to peruse the contents.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Hazel demanded, standing directly behind him with hands on hips.

"Looking to see if there's any of that pud left from yesterday. I'm feeling a mite peckish."

"There isn't and you couldn't possibly be... it's only been three hours since dinner."

"A biscuit, then, just one?" Ron pleaded.

"No. You don't need one. And don't think you're going to sneak that Mars bar you thought you had hidden in your sock drawer, either. It's not there anymore."

"You're no fun," Ron pouted. "On the other hand..." He gave her a come-hither look.

"You've had quite enough of that as well. I need my sleep. Those girls will wear me out tomorrow."

"I thought that's what you had nannies for?"

"Enough. Come upstairs and get your bath."

"Yes, dear."

 **An hour later the Strykers were still awake...** and not because they'd found something more interesting to do. With no prospect of horizontal aerobics on offer, Ron'd donned his usual sleeping attire of wifebeater vest and voluminous silk boxer shorts, tonight's pair featuring a repetitive design of leaping trout. Hazel was seated at her dressing table in a camisole-style satin nightie, giving her hair the customary one hundred strokes. Ron'd flopped on the bed, crossing his ankles and resting his clasped hands over his belly. After several minutes of silence, he suddenly spoke.

"I think Steve might be having an affair."

Hazel dropped her brush and nearly toppled off her stool. "Whaaaaaaat?!"

"I said I think Steve's..."

"I heard what you said... but what... how... why would you think that?"

"He's been acting funny for the past week or so. Not himself at all. Yesterday was bad enough but today he was _especially_ moody. Like the weight of the world's on his shoulders."

"Ooooh... _especially_ moody, is it? And that would be a drastic departure from _normally_ moody?" Hazel retrieved her hairbrush from the floor and resumed grooming... fifty licks more to go.

Ron ignored her sarcasm. "I'm serious. Something's going on with him. Didn't you notice at dinner?"

"Why don't you just ask him?"

"Maybe I've got it all wrong... maybe it's _Dora_ having the affair. You never know what women of a certain age are capable of."

"Careful there!" his wife warned.

"Oh... I don't mean _you_... I know _you_ would never cheat on me."

"Sure about that, are you?" she said mischievously.

"Of course I'm..." Ron abruptly choked off in mid-sentence and turned his head to look at her as if seeing her for the first time.

" **What's the matter?"**

"I... erm... I suddenly remembered something..."

"Remembered what?"

"I don't know... it was like flying back in time, just for a second there... something about the week Steve proposed to Dora... there was someone else... who was it? And you and him... you'd been drinking... I was in trouble... oh damn, it's just not coming back to me! Do you remember, hun... what happened that week? We've never talked about it, have we? Now that I think about it, none of us have _ever_ talked about it."

Hazel felt a chill envelope her as if the air conditioning, which she knew was switched off, had unaccountably turned itself back on. She very deliberately set the brush on the table and climbed onto the California-king-size bed, settling cross-legged at the foot and out of Ron's reach. She was still limber enough to do that, thanks to thrice-weekly workouts with her personal trainer.

"Ronnie... dearest... what's brought this up now?" she wheedled. "Sounds like you've had a flashback..."

"Is that what they are?"

" _They?_ You mean... you've had others?"

"A few, yes... just recently. It's very odd."

"Why haven't you told me?"

"Didn't seem important... it's not like I can remember what I remembered well enough to describe it to you. It just happens... and then it's gone."

"I see. Well, maybe it's time for a check-up... just to, you know... rule out anything. I'll ring Dr. Ellingham's surgery tomorrow and see if he can slot you in."

"I'm sure it's nothing... I feel fine... it's a little disorienting, is all," he admitted. "But getting back to Steve and Dora... I can't visualize either of them running around... but... didn't you notice at dinner how off they both were? He kept giving her odd looks and she hardly spoke to him. Come to think of it, Jesse was a bit off his feed as well... kept looking from one to the other as if they were aliens just landed from the moon. You're around Dora more than me... have you noticed her acting weird lately?"

"Not really, no," Hazel lied. "Maybe they've just had a little squabble over something. Remember when Jesse used to come over and ask to spend the night with Jason because he was afraid of the fussing?"

"Yeah... but I thought they got over that years ago."

"Perhaps while the two of you are out and about tomorrow, you can work on drawing him out. But don't be too aggressive about it, Ron. And Ron, if he does bring something up, please do try to be courteous and attentive. Might be best to leave the clowning at home for once, eh?"

"Who? Me?"

"Yes. You. You're supposed to be Steve's best mate so act like it and don't ridicule or criticise."

"And what about you?"

"I'll be seeing Dora at the gym Monday, as usual, and then we're getting our hair done and doing lunch. I'll see what I can come up with. Maybe they could join us at Quantro's for dinner that evening and we can both keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Will that suit?"

"Fine. Sounds like a plan."

 **Hazel lay awake long after Ron'd drifted off.** She, too, had been worried lately—about Dora's recent state of mind. She _had_ been acting rather jumpy and Hazel could plainly see from the circles under her friend's eyes that she'd not been sleeping well. On several occasions Hazel had tried to winkle out the problem but Dora'd not been forthcoming other than to mention she'd been having unusual dreams—both nighttime and daytime. The two'd shared so many secrets over the years that Hazel didn't want to believe something was so wrong that Dora couldn't bring herself to confide in her. The idea of an affair—on either Steve's or Dora's part—hadn't even remotely crossed her mind. Whatever... Hazel judged that the Rosses wouldn't be up to dining out even though it might be a welcome respite from a houseful of guests... but she'd ask.

Even more alarming was Ron's bringing up that particular week in their past. It was too true that none of them'd ever discussed what, exactly, had gone down back then. Hazel'd not only been present but an active party to those pivotal three days that'd concluded The Week That Wasn't... and she remembered with diamond-bright clarity every minute detail.

She had always been aware that she was under some sort of constraint that prevented her from talking about it, although she didn't entirely understand how or why. On a subconscious level she also knew that Dottie was under the same prohibitions, which was why she'd never attempted to bring it up with her. And now... after forty years...

 **Sleep wouldn't come.** With a grunt of irritation, Hazel slid out of the bed and poked her feet into her Runaway Rabbit® Classic™ bunny slippers. After checking to be sure Ron was dead to the world, she slipped on her Juicy® couture hooded velour robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself a goblet of blackberry wine and picked up her Apple® iPhone™ 90 from the counter before wandering through the sliding glass doors out to the pool deck. Settling into a patio chair by the light of the half-moon, she keyed up the phone and reviewed the voice and text messages that had accumulated throughout the evening hours. Unlike many people, Hazel refused to be ruled by her cell phone or feel obligated to respond to every summons. Often hours would go by before she bothered to check messages or return calls. It made other people crazy and afforded her a somewhat childish sense of autonomy.

Most of the messages were inconsequential and she deleted them one by one. But sure enough, there towards the end was a text from Dorothy confirming Hazel's suspicions that something was seriously amiss: _Urgent u call! Meet soonest! Lady E enroute!'_ Hazel frowned, recalling that Dottie'd kept trying to get her attention during dinner but there'd been too many people milling about and too much commotion, and then Hazel and Ron'd left immediately afterward. She couldn't call the old lady at this time of night, of course. It would have to wait until first thing in the morning. And then she'd have to devise some way of meeting with her surrogate mother without alerting Dora... perhaps she could go fetch her back for lunch? But no, the children would be here...

 **Donnelly had not been Hazel's surname at birth.** As far back as she could remember she'd been in care or, when older, given over to the same county orphanage Steve'd called home years earlier. Three couples'd taken her in on trial as a potential adoptee and had returned her to the orphanage with the explanation, regretfully submitted of course, that she simply wasn't suitable.

When it seemed no one would ever consider making the skinny, resentful and sullen girl part of their family, in had stepped the Donnellys. Oh... they'd tried their best over the year they'd kept her, but they'd made too many mistakes—the first and irrevocable one being letting her know that not only was she _not_ their first choice, but the _only_ choice the now desperate orphanage management was willing to offer. The Donnellys, as most adoptive parents, had wanted a new baby but hadn't qualified because of their advanced age. They weren't prepared to deal with a damaged child already thirteen years old. Hazel'd run away again and again, refusing to adhere to their rules. The official adoption had gone through, but shortly afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly had with great relief surrendered her back to the court as an 'incorrigible juvenile.' That time, she'd not been returned to the orphanage but remanded to a juvenile reform facility.

Recognizing that no couple in their right minds would consider taking on a fourteen-year-old delinquent, the kindly and dedicated social services caseworker on whose desk the girl's file'd landed came up with an alternative. Dorothy Corbett'd once been Steve Ross' caseworker and had kept up with his progress simply as a matter of personal interest. At first she'd despaired of his ever fitting into mainstream society, but all that had changed after he'd settled in at her good friend Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks' little farm in the country. Perhaps that sort of environment would be beneficial to her new ward? Also, Mrs. Corbett knew that another teenage girl not much older than Hazel lived there—the Colonel's niece… mild-mannered, educated and a good role model for the younger one. And so Hazel'd finally found a home and a family at Follyfoot. Not easily, at first—but then nothing worth having ever is.

 **Not until she had children of her own** did Hazel come to truly appreciate how much of a trial she'd been not only to the Donnellys and the others before them but to the residents of the farm. If anyone had forecast for her then the life she was now living, she would have laughed at them and called them rude names.

Hazel'd never been interested in finding out anything about her birth parents. She hated them. Period. Her allegiance was firmly vested in the Colonel, Slugger, Dora, Ron and Steve, and later in Dottie and finally in Lady Elayne. Until that week that no one was supposed to remember, she'd been merely an acquaintance of the American woman on the next estate. Lady Elayne'd started taking a greater interest in Hazel and including her in luncheons and other occasions. The friendship had deepened further once Dora was involved in wedding plans and too busy to visit Butler Hall as often as she used to.

It was from Lady Elayne that Hazel'd learned of her chequered antecedents. Though not exactly a witch, her ancestry was decidedly Otherworld, which was almost as good as, according to Lady Elayne, who'd sounded out the young girl's interest in the possibility of coming into the Society as a novitiate. Hazel'd initially accepted the offer but soon found she'd no time to continue her training, what with her own impending nuptials and a baby on the way. Eventually her membership'd transitioned to inactive status although she still paid her dues and kept in touch mostly by way of Dottie and Elayne. Hazel'd kept carefully concealed for forty years this aspect of her being... and wasn't about to come forward at this late date. No one outside the Society—neither her husband nor her children—had any inkling of her true heritage.

But what Hazel'd learned couldn't be unlearned.

 **Before rejoining her husband in bed,** Hazel rummaged in her walk-in closet for the innocuous shoebox containing a tissue-wrapped white satin brocade robe and a wand, cleverly disguised as a telescoping stainless-steel pen-size laser pointer with a bright green display. She slipped the pen/wand in her robe pocket, reminding herself to hunt up some fresh triple A batteries tomorrow, and returned the box to its former position—hidden in plain sight among scores of Manolo Blahniks, Kate Spades, Michael Louboutins, Jimmy Choos, Dianne von Furstenburgs and Lilly Pulitzers. Not for nothing was Hazel Marie Donnelly Stryker known as Yorkshire's challenge to Imelda Marcos.

 **REDEYE RUMINATIONS**

" _ **Maybe you're right, Elle,**_ about us getting older and losing our skills, our powers of observation... I don't understand, either, why neither of us could see what was right under our noses all along. As Madeleine's mother and Rowan's grandmother, I should've looked into Rob's past more thoroughly... as soon as I knew she was pregnant... if nothing else than to make sure there were no abnormalities that'd carry over to the child. He used to come out to the ranch regularly to visit his son, when the boy was too young to travel alone, and we never found anything even remotely objectionable about the man..."

"Aside from bein' married an' knockin' up your sixteen-year-old daughter..."

"Aside from that," Sally agreed, "But then Rowan started going to him for visitation so I've not seen much of Rob in the past ten years. I don't know why I never made a connection between his face and Steve's."

Elayne made shushing noises. "No reason why you should've... you were only around Steve for a few days back in 1974 an' Rob didn't show up until... what... 1994 or so?"

"Babies never arrive at a convenient moment, do they?" Sally mused. "Not even forty years after the fact! Why couldn't this have come up _after_ we'd sorted out _our_ problem?"

"No point worryin' ourselves into a tizzy... it'll all work out in the wash. It'll have to—them kids're are meant to be together an' my futurevision's never been wrong. Well... almost never. Has Madeleine told Yvonne anything about our family's... uh... peculiarities?"

"You do realize, don't you, that she and I haven't been on the closest of terms in many years? And now she holds me accountable for the way Rowan relates to her... he treats me as if I were his mother and Maddy was his big sister. She was never around... first it was high school, then college... and then Bernard and I encouraged her to go on to graduate school and go for a doctorate. Now, of course, she's got her career..."

"She should be grateful, if anything. If'n you hadn't a raised that young 'un for her, she wouldn't a never got there."

"I did what I believed was right at the time. Still do. But to answer your question, yes, I suggested it might be a good idea to prepare the Rosses. For once she agreed. She plans on telling Yvonne while they're on the plane Tuesday night—not _all_ of it, mind you, and not all at once... just enough to get her started thinking about it. How well do you know this woman? How is she liable to react?"

Elayne gave this a few minutes' thought before answering. "Yvonne's a practical, down-to-earth sort a gal but she's still got a lotta Old Country in her—them Norwegians, ya know, they come over here with a double buttload a superstitions. I'm thinkin' she's just skeptic enough to _not_ discount the _possibility_ of our existence even if her rational mind rejects it."

"Sounds promising, then. Another thing Maddy and I agreed on is that we both think Rowan should shoulder the responsibility of explaining us to Pallas."

"What does Rowan really feel about all this?" Elayne asked shrewdly.

"All things considered, he's remarkably adept at moving between cultures and managing to blend in wherever he happens to find himself at any given moment."

"That ain't what I asked. That poor boy's fixin' to be dropped on his head into yet another alien culture. Believe me, them Brits ain't nuthin' like us!"

"Yes, I know, Auntie... I've been there, remember?"

"But you was just a visitor... you didn't live there for years like me."

"Keep in mind we've had few opportunities for discussions regarding the recent turn of events, since Rowan's not living at home anymore. But I believe he's mature enough to tolerate yet one more ingredient in his cultural pie. He's always accepted the explanation that neither of the Camerons had any living relatives back in the UK and that's why so little was known about them. He's not happy that his father lied by omission—by never having told him about being adopted. He understands that if he'd never met Pallas, none of this information about the Ross connection would've ever surfaced. On the other hand, because of the prophecy he also understands why it had to. We—Bernard and I—question whether what he feels for the girl right now is truly love or just resignation to fate and obligation to duty. In retrospect, I think perhaps Madeleine was right in that I should never've told Rowan about the prophecy at all. Then he would've known in his heart right away if Pallas were the right one."

"No use cryin' over spilt milk, Sal. Besides, bein' in love makes ya crazy an' then ya end up in divorce court. I'll take a solid partnership, mutual respect an' a good prenup over love any day."

"Don't be too hard on Maddy, Elle. She's doing the best she can now, trying to make up for lost time. It was a trade-off... either drop out of school to care for him and be an unskilled reservation rat the rest of her life, or let Boo and me have him so she could finish her education. She had... has... too fine a mind to have let it go to waste, marrying one of her cousins and having a houseful of babies like a lot of the girls did back then. Things are different now... with our own school and so many young people going on to college, learning to live in the outside world and deciding to stay there. Not that that's a bad thing, of course. There's only so much land to go around so this way the population remains stable. Madeleine won't be coming back and I'm afraid Rowan won't be, either... but I suppose that's to be expected. The best and brightest ones leave."

Elayne was silent for perhaps an entire minute, then abruptly segued into, "Damned Internet! Folks know way more than they oughta as it is. Any ole body can come along an' poke their nose in your bidness these days! If it warn't for that genealogy craze wouldn't nobody know nuthin' 'bout that baby's daddy!"

"Language, please!" Sally reminded. "And keep your voice down. Some people are wanting to sleep now. The Internet and the genealogy craze wouldn't have mattered anyway, once Madeleine and Yvonne realized they had a situation, not just a coincidence. Eventually they would've pieced that puzzle together although it would've taken months instead of weeks."

"I 'spose Bernard's got his opinions about this mess," Elayne snorted.

Sally paused, unsure whether her aunt asking a question or making a statement, having never approved of her mate. Except for that one occasion when Elayne had been obliged to request his assistance, she was normally dismissive of his existence. For his part, Bernard was wary of witches in general—other than his wife—and particularly terrified, or so he'd always claimed, of Elayne in particular.

"I can't speak for Boo. I'm sure Rowan's gone to him for advice but whatever they discussed remains between them. When Rowan was home recently, Boo took him along with a couple of the other boys up in the mountains for a few days. I didn't ask what they did up there, but I probably don't want to know anyway. They are what they are."

"Bernard's still foolin' with that nonsense? At his age, he's liable to run hisself slap outta energy, get stuck an' not be able to change back! Then you'll be a pore ole widder like me!"

Unamused, Sally gave her a long level look. "I suppose that could happen... someday... but not for a long time yet."

Elayne was shaking her head negatively. "Like I tole you an' I tole all your gal young 'uns, y'all should stick with your own kind an' not mate outside the tribe. No good ever comes of it."

" _You_ did... eight or nine times, as I recall, and that seems to have worked out all right."

"Yeah... but that's different... they was Normals an' I knew I'd never have any young 'uns a my own," Elayne responded sadly. "We keep outbreedin' like this, in another generation won't nobody have no powers an' our kind'll die out... just like the dinosaurs."

"Well then, if you believe that—and unless you've looked into the future lately and seen otherwise—I'll take that to mean there's an excellent chance Rowan's and Pallas' children will be Normals."

"Or not."

At that moment Elayne noticed that the corpulent passenger in Seat A-3 had leaned so far in their direction she was in danger of falling into the aisle.

"Sumpin' I can help you with, honey?" she trilled sweetly. "Wanna know how to turn that three hundred pounds of ugly lard sittin' next to you into a toad? It ain't all that hard..."

"Elayne, please!" Sally shushed her.

"Well, I never!" The startled woman withdrew into her seat like a snail into its shell and held a magazine up to her face while pretending to ignore them... but not before shooting a speculative glance at the morbidly obese gentleman snoring at her side.

"Yeah... I'll bet you ain't never!" Elayne muttered.

"Stop! I mean it! You're embarrassing me!" Sally was trying hard not to giggle. "And mind your vocabulary... please!"

"Sorry." Clearly Elayne was not a bit sorry.

Cabin lights were dimmed for the benefit of those wishing to sleep away the duration of the flight. Attendants distributed blankets and pillows. The two women resumed talking in muted tones for another hour or so until eventually they, too, drifted into the arms of Morpheus as the great iron bird carried them through the night.

 _ **Distance from JFK International Airport to Heathrow International Airport: 3,459 miles**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12:**_ **MUM'S THE WORD**

 **Monday, November 17** **th** **… Steve'd tossed and turned for hours** until an exasperated Dora'd dragged a blanket and pillow down to her sitting room and camped out on the daybed where she'd managed to clock a few hours of restless sleep herself. Returning bleary-eyed to their suite in the morning to shower and dress, she glanced enviously at her now soundly sleeping husband. Probably he wouldn't even notice she hadn't spent the entire night with him. Not even the noise of the shower disturbed him, or the sounds of closet doors and drawers being opened and closed.

Dressed for the morning ride except for her boots which lived in the mudroom downstairs, Dora was sorely tempted to wake up Steve. Just because. But that would be mean, and meanness'd never been one of her character flaws... not like Ron back in... in a millisecond the flashback was there and gone... Ron having done or said something extraordinarily cruel and herself telling him to get out of her sight... but why? As she cautiously made her descent to midlevel, Dora clung to the banister in case a second or even third episode occurred in quick succession as sometimes now happened, leaving her slightly dizzy. In the kitchen Miz Bee took one look at Dora's face and with her famed economy with words barked 'Sit!' while pointing at the table in the breakfast nook.

Dottie was perched at her usual place in her favorite tatty chenille wrapper. Across from her Jesse slumped over his white china mug of coffee, in jeans and a gray sweatshirt that had seen better days. At least he'd shaved and combed his hair. The table was littered with pages of the _Tockwith Examiner_. Dottie and Jesse each had a section propped against the coffee carafe between them.

"Good morning, everyone!" Dora said, taking her place at the foot of the table and removing the carafe to pour her own coffee. Dottie returned the greeting and, now that the prop was gone, ostentatiously rearranged the paper in order to continue perusing the obits and horoscopes. Jesse merely grunted and slid his glasses down to better read the financials. Jesse was not a Morning Person and couldn't manage to get his contacts in before noon.

Dora'd just got her coffee sugared and creamed to her satisfaction and was reaching for an unappropriated section of newspaper when Miz Bee loomed over them with the first platter. 'Clear!' she commanded and papers were promptly whisked from the surface. In the kitchen, Miz Bee was Queen and her Word Was Law... just as Dottie had taught her.

 **Although there really was no need** for adult children to keep their mother apprised of their daily activities, the girls usually did anyway. At dinner yesterday Julia'd announced that she and Ian would be arising before dawn and driving south to the New Forest for the preview of ponies to be auctioned at the Beaulieu Road sale later in the week. After delivering their two younger girls to their Stryker grandparents for the day and an overnighter, Sarah and Jason were off to the City for an evening of dining and theatre. Annie'd be staying over with a school chum.

Michael and Trini'd also left earlier on a visit to friends in Manchester, brushing off Miz Bee's protests about missing the most important meal of the day but promising to be back in time for dinner. Jesse, as far as Dora knew, had no morning plans and neither did she other than wait for Steve to get up and have his breakfast before they went out on their morning ride.

The three at table were still eating and chatting about inconsequential matters when Steve shuffled in, mumbling 'Good morning' without much conviction and dropping into his chair with a haggard, preoccupied look. He put hardly anything on his plate and then picked at it, finally pushing it away. Father and son didn't speak and were quite plainly avoiding looking at each other.

 **Dora cut her eyes over at Steve.** He wasn't dressed for riding. "Something on your mind this morning?"

He snapped out of his thoughts and gave his wife what Jesse thought was one of the fakest attempts at a smile he'd ever seen. "What? Oh... no. No. Everything's fine."

"Aren't we riding today?" she inquired mildly.

"Sorry, luv... not today," he said brusquely. "I have some... um... business matters to attend to." He stood up and came around to kiss Dora on the cheek, placing his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze... just as he used to do when they were young and he wanted to get her attention but wasn't yet comfortable with any physical contact more intimate than that. Dora wasn't a bit fooled and her alert level percolated up a notch.

"But you enjoy yourself... and don't go alone... take Jesse with you." He started to leave the room, then turned around. "Don't forget... Ron and I are driving to Kingston this afternoon. He wants me to look at some boat he's thinking of buying. Don't hold up dinner for me... we might be late getting back... oh... and don't mention anything to Hazel... it's meant to be an anniversary surprise."

After Steve had gone, Dora set down her coffee cup with great deliberation. Placing her elbows on the table and folding her hands together under her chin, she stared unsmiling past Steve's empty chair and out the window.

Dottie and Jesse glanced at each other before studiously returning their attention to their plates, both recognizing Dora's 'thinking' posture and unwilling to disturb it.

 **It was most unlike Steve** to forego their daily hack, no matter what other business lay at hand. In fact, the only times they _didn't_ go were if one of them were sick or the weather simply too inclement to venture out. Her sixth sense advised her that some unpleasantness was afoot that Steve was keeping from her... and that somehow Jesse was involved. She knew, too, that direct inquiry wasn't going to elicit information from either one.

Jesse was so like his father in many ways but fortunately without the high temperament and inclination to argue that Steve'd so often unleashed on her in the early days. Granted, she herself'd always been quick to rise to the bait. She was thankful that the both of them had eventually smoothed out their incompatible edges. They hadn't had a row since... she couldn't remember when. Jesse, on the other hand, never raised his voice and rarely argued. If pressed, he would simply clam up, which only made Steve angrier.

"Your father seems to be upset about something," Dora commented blandly, shifting her eyes to her son. "I don't suppose you've any idea what that might be?" It was both a question and an accusation of complicity.

Jesse conveniently shoved a large hunk of sausage in his mouth to avoid having to respond immediately. He wasn't any more convincing a liar than his father. He waved his fork around helplessly before chewing and swallowing.

"You're imagining things, Mom. Dad's probably just out of sorts about this party. You know he doesn't like crowds. And he hates having people making a fuss over him."

 **With eyes still on her son** and his blatant attempt to appear innocent, she picked up the two-way from the table and paged the stable. "Jack, are you there?"

A disembodied voice answered at once. "Yes, Aunt Dora?"

"Would you get Jerry and Questor ready? We'll be down in fifteen minutes." Dora didn't bother to explain that Jerry would be Jesse's mount today rather than Steve's, knowing that Steve wouldn't mind. Both Ross boys had inherited their father's eerie Doctor Dolittle-esque ability to communicate directly with animals... horses in particular. The old horse would be safe in Jesse's hands and not pushed past his limitations.

"I'll have 'em ready, Aunt Dora."

"Thank you, Jack." She keyed off the two-way.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Am I being press-ganged?"

"Surely you can spare an hour or two for your poor old Mum," Dora said firmly. "Goodness knows when Yvonne and the children get here we won't have a minute to ourselves."

Jesse's heart sank. When his mother spoke like that, it meant A Serious Talk was in the offing. "Who was that?"

"One of your second cousins—Evan's boy. You remember him, don't you... and his twin sisters Eleanor and Eloise? He's between school terms at the moment and wanted to earn some pocket money. A little scatterbrained unless supervised but gets the job done if you keep after him. Takes after his granddad," adding with a sigh, "Blood will tell."

 _No kidding… and you don't even know the half of it... yet._

 **By the time mother and son** had walked down the drive to the South Barn, the redheaded Jack had the horses ready and waiting for them. They both thanked him and mounted up, ambling around the Ladyfan Lake and turning left onto the bridle path that looped around the smaller Spirit Pond in the woods before eventually rejoining the drive. They'd gone quite a ways before Dora spoke. "I'll never get used to it."

"Get used to what?"

"Being called 'Mom'... it's so... guttural. Your sisters and brother call me 'Mum.' It's so much more soft and friendly, don't you think?"

"My sisters and brother don't live in the States."

"Too true!" She heaved a heart-rending sigh. She always promised herself, during her son's visits, that she wouldn't bring up the fact that he lived an ocean and most of a continent away... but somehow it always managed to insinuate itself into the atmosphere.

" _Mother..._ give it a rest, okay? Please?"

Dora'd never completely accepted her boys' defection, one after the other, from the country of their birth... and their family. She'd dissolved in tears upon learning that Jesse'd obtained his American citizenship. She'd had to face up to the reality that her firstborn wouldn't be coming 'home'—his life, his home was elsewhere... permanently. The second blow had come from Michael, who simply showed up one Christmas between terms at uni with his new _boyfriend_ and stated intentions to live and work in the south of France in future. Steve was the one who'd fallen apart on that occasion.

She mentally chastised herself for having once again managed to irritate Jesse on that touchy subject and returned to the one that had occupied her attention at the breakfast table.

" **I'm worried about your father.** Did you notice how withdrawn he was at dinner, and again this morning?"

"Already asked and answered," was the terse reply.

Dora glanced over at Jesse, her face troubled and anxious. "He doesn't have any sort of health problem, does he? Something he's told you and is keeping from me?"

"No, Mom... Mum... funny you should ask, though... he asked me the same question about you. Hey... here's a thought... why don't you try asking _each other!_ "

"Jesse!"

"Sorry, Mom… Mum! But really... no, it's nothing like that."

"Nothing like what?"

"I just meant, if he's sick or not feeling well, he hasn't said anything to me about it."

Dora didn't look convinced but tsked to her mount and increased the pace.

"Can I ask you a question, Mum?"

"Of course."

" **Has Dad ever done anything** that you thought... that you felt you couldn't forgive?"

Dora laughed. "Oh... many times over. I've been so angry with that man I could pinch his head off. But in the end I've always forgiven him." After a few moments she said, "What sort of question is that?"

"Just a general sort."

"I see. And what brought that up?"

"Nothing in particular... I was just wondering."

Jesse looked away and she could see the muscles in his jaw working. With a mother's instinct she knew he was either deeply agitated or lying through his teeth... she'd bet on both.

"Vonda once said if she ever found out I had another woman she'd throw me out and then kill me. Or maybe the other way around. In either case, I'd never get a second chance." Jesse knew it was a lame diversion but it was the best he could come up with off the top of his head.

Dora reined up abruptly. "Oh Jess... are you and Vonda in trouble? Are you having an affair? Or is she? Please don't let it be that!"

"No, Mum... I was just wondering if, say, someone had committed an indiscretion before he married and his wife found out later, would that count? Would she, maybe, leave him?"

" **I'd be highly surprised** if there's a man alive who _hasn't_ committed an indiscretion or two before he married. Your father certainly did. I mean... I couldn't have _proven_ anything at the time but one always senses things, doesn't one...?"

"Yes, you've mentioned that before. But were you okay with that… then?"

Dora laughed. "Not a bit. I moped and cried and carried on like a toddler who's dropped her lolly in the dirt. And I was so angry and jealous I could chew horseshoes and spit nails. But I couldn't say anything about it to him, could I? We weren't boyfriend and girlfriend. It's not like he was my personal property. Your father's very much his own man and always has been."

"But..." Jesse persisted, "hypothetically speaking... if you found out now—today—that Dad'd been with someone else in... you know... _that_ way, before you got married—with someone you knew—would you be mad enough to leave him?"

" **Let me explain something to you, son.** For years I was terrified that some other younger, prettier woman would come along and take him from me... but he's always been steadfast. I think I've gotten over that... finally... even though, in my eyes he's just as handsome and desirable as he ever was and the world still swarms with predatory women. No, I can't think of anything that would cause me stop loving him...or make me want to leave him. Unless..." Her voice trailed off.

"Unless what?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Go on."

Jesse gnawed his lower lip before positing his next question. "What about you, Mom... did you ever have someone else?"

"Really, Jesse! That's not the sort of question a son should ask his mother, for heaven's sake!"

"Maybe not... but I bet you'd answer if it were one of the girls asking."

"That's because it's different for us... women can discuss relationship issues prosaically! Men are all brag and bluster... it's all about conquest for them."

Jesse grimaced. "Chill, Mum! I wasn't asking who you slept with... I was just wondering if you'd ever had a serious boyfriend other than Dad."

"None of your business."

 **Right at that moment** she was hit by a flashback so intense it took her breath away: the memory of her very first real kiss... firm hands cupping her face, the pressure of soft lips against hers and a hard body against hers, the velvety smoothness of a man's bare torso beneath her fingertips, the rising heat of desire—all of which, until that moment, had been foreign sensations to her. The incident was as crystal clear in her mind as if it had occurred forty minutes ago instead of forty years. It had taken place on the south bank of the big lake... and the man had not been Steve. Jesse's voice broke through, banishing the spell.

"Mum... what is it? Are you all right?"

Dora felt like her face was on fire and knew it had to be just as red as it felt.

"I'm fine," she choked out. "Just... remembering something, is all."

Jesse's look of concern turned to one of understanding and a slow grin spread across his face. "Aha... so there _was_ someone else! Come on, Mum... give over! Who was it?"

"No one you know or ever will!"

 **They had been progressing sedately,** more or less side by side, although Dora's high-strung and aptly named Questor repeatedly attempted to surge forward and Dora kept having to rein him back. In his advancing age Jerry had become a phlegmatic soul and didn't mind being hindermost. In companionable silence the riders exited the tunnel of trees and rejoined the paved drive, at which point the pavement veered right and up to the house while the unpaved remains of the former farm track angled left and circled up to the tableland that lay southwards of the house. Dora allowed Questor to pick up the pace on the upward slope and he soon galloped out of sight at the crest of the hill. Jerry wasn't having any of it and refused to move faster than a bumpy gait more extended than a walk and but somewhat shorter than a trot.

By the time Jesse'd urged the old gelding up the slope, Dora'd dismounted and scrambled atop a granite outcropping to wait for them.

The surrounding land'd once been cultivated, row crops mostly, but under Steve and Dora's ownership had been allowed to revert to its natural state of tall waving grasses and the occasional bush. From atop the boulders one had a splendid aspect, overlooking the next valley, of the hamlet of Wike and its surrounding farmlands dotted with clusters of woodland, and in the far distance cloud-veiled hills. Questor was tethered by his headcollar lead to a scrawny wind-contorted tree, happily munching dried grasses.

Dora was now sitting on her rock with one knee drawn up and leaning back on both hands, equanimity and composure restored. When Jesse pulled up and gave her a questioning look, she shook her head negatively and patted the boulder, indicating he was to join her.

Jesse sighed and slipped off Jerry, tying his lead to the same tree, which wouldn't serve as any kind of restraint if either of the horses had in mind to test its immobility as a hitching post. It took two tries including one embarrassing slip at which he tore a hole in one knee of his jeans before Jesse was able to scale the boulder and settle beside his mother. Minutes passed in which they didn't speak and she held her face to the breeze.

" **His name was… oh dear… I can't remember,"** Dora stated quietly, not looking at her son.

"Oh?"

"He was an American, here only a short while... a week perhaps? Hadn't thought of him in years... how odd!"

"Were you in love with him?"

"I don't know… I don't remember. I suppose not... it was right after that your father and I were engaged..."

"So Dad knew him?"

"Had to've..."

"And Uncle Ron... and Aunt Hazel and DoDo and Slugger?"

"Yes... yes, of course. They were all here at the time. I can't, at the moment, recall any other particulars..."

"Strange no one's ever mentioned this boyfriend before..."

"Yes, isn't it? Oh well... it was a very long time ago." Having dismissed that topic briskly, Dora turned to face Jesse.

"I've answered your questions... most of then, anyway. I'd appreciate the courtesy of your answering mine." He heard the steel in her voice.

" **What's going on with your father?"**

"Already told you. There's nothing for you to worry about."

"Don't lie to me, son. I already know about the argument."

"What argument? Who told you there was an argument?"

"You spent two hours closeted with your father in his study yesterday. Voices were raised. Did you think no one would notice... or mention that fact to me?"

"That new girl, what's-her-name... or DoDo!" Jesse muttered bitterly. "Blabbermouths!"

"DoDo doesn't blabber. She merely mentioned it—when I asked—what you and your father had been up to while I was out shopping."

"Can't a fellow have some quality private time with his dad?" Jesse whined. "We talked about guy stuff, okay?"

"Horse pooh!" Dora said briskly. "You two can barely last two minutes in each other's presence, let alone two hours. I hate it, but that's how it is and always has been. DoDo said you were both shouting. I want to know what you were arguing over. You have to tell me."

"No. I can't."

"Can't... or won't?"

"Both. It's a private matter, Mother. It's not my place to tell."

 **Dora blithely uttered an expletive** and Jesse's mouth fell open. His mother never, EVER used bad language. Before she could say anything else, he jumped in.

"Please listen to me... don't... DO NOT... ask him about it... not yet. It's something he has to think about and work through before he brings it to you but I promise you he _will_ tell you about it... either tonight or tomorrow."

She turned her head and fixed her eyes on his. Jesse thought he saw anxiety in them.

"It's another woman, isn't it?" She spoke so softly he wasn't sure he heard correctly.

"Mom... NO! It's not that all..."

"If it's so private... and important... why would he tell you first and not me?" she asked, tears starting to brim.

"You've got it backwards. This was something Dad knew nothing about until I told him... just yesterday. It's not a financial or health issue... and definitely not another woman—not a current one, anyway... but, yes... it's important... it'll have a significant impact on all of us... but he has to be the one to explain it. Can you please just let it go until then?"

Before she could riposte, a rider topped the crest of the hill and came cantering toward them.

 **LONDON**

 _ **Much earlier, at Heathrow International Airport...**_ Aided by favorable tailwinds the Boeing 747 touched down almost forty-five minutes ahead of schedule, giving the witches-on-a-mission ample time to clear customs and make their way to the Elemis spa where they quickly restored their travel-ravaged visages to a semblance of normality and changed into appropriate attire. With their hair freshly and fashionably coiffed and wearing knee-length tweed skirts with twinsets, pearls and sensible shoes, they merged seamlessly with the streams of travelers marching resolutely toward departure gates and ploughing relentlessly toward their watering holes of choice.

With Elayne brandishing her BA VIP Executive Gold Member Club Card, they were greeted at the entrance to the lounge by a smarmy maitre d' with a lisping Catalan accent who solicitously guided them to a secluded nook. They ordered a light champagne breakfast, texted Dorothy advising their revised ETA, arranged for a chauffeured hire car to transport them from Leeds-Bradford to Harrogate, and confirmed their hotel reservations. Elayne had considered then discarded the idea of chartering a light aircraft for the next segment of their journey. A few enquiries had yielded two seats on a commuter prop departing in forty-five minutes that would get them to Leeds by midmorning. It was only a fifty-five minute flight—they could rough it with the hoi polloi for that negligible amount of time.

 **Elayne scarfed down her eggs Benedict** in record time and was polishing the last crumbs off her plate when the signature tune of the Wicked Witch from the _Wizard of Oz_ floated out of her capacious pocketbook. She went digging, to no avail, for her cell phone and spectacles. "How come whatever you need allus sinks to the bottom!" she moaned. By the time the items were located the call had gone to voice mail and Elayne said a bad word.

"It's Dottie. She says to give her a buzz soon's we get to the hotel. She's goin' down to the barn after breakfast to see Maude an' ain't got good reception in there. She'll back up at the house by the time we get to Harrogate, though."

"We still haven't discussed what it is—exactly—we're planning on doing once we get there," Sally said after a waiter had drifted by to replenish their champagne.

"I reckon the first order of bidness, once we get settled in, is we work us up a battle plan."

"What you mean 'we', white woman? I only met these people a few times. What makes you think they'll remember me? What's my role in all this?" Sally fumed.

"Oh, they'll remember... eventually. Dottie will, anyhow, since she knows you're comin'. She's aimin' to meet us at the hotel where we can have us a sit-down an' go over what we did an' why we did it, what's gone wrong, an' how we gonna fix it. I figger she an' I can tackle Dora an' you can deal with Jesse."

"Jesse? Why him? We've never even met!"

Elayne shrugged. "Gotta meet him sooner or later, since he's gonna be a in-law. Might as well be sooner an' he can help us decide the best way of approaching Steve."

"If only we knew what was happening right now," Sally said.

"Hang on a sec, honey. I got an idea." Elayne reached for the bowl of complimentary nuts (deluxe, no peanuts) and dumped the contents onto an unfolded napkin. Then she poured both flutes of champagne into the bowl as Sally watched with curiosity.

" **What on earth...?"**

"Instant scrying pool!" Elayne crowed, removing her trifocals and bowing her head over the bowl, scrutinizing the contents with one eye closed while mumbling some indistinct incantation.

"Uh huh... uh huh..."

"Well, what do you spy with your little eye?" Sally asked impatiently, watching as the champagne swirled cloudily of its own accord before stilling itself and presenting a vague image.

"Shush! Gimme a minute... okay... nuthin' much... they's all sittin' around the table with long faces, like somebody done tee-teed in their grits. Oh wait... Steve's gettin' up, shakin' his head no about somethin'. Dora's just sittin' there with her mad face on... now she's talkin' on a cell phone. Okay... now her an' Jesse is gettin' up an' leavin' the room, too... an' Dottie done took her cell phone outta her pocket..."

Just then Elayne's phone sounded off again... _Duh dee duh dee duh DEE DEE Duh dee duh dee duh DEE DEEEEEE!_ She flapped a hand at Sally, not taking her eye off the bowl. "Get that, sweetie, would you?"

Sally fumbled with her own trifocals, tilting her head back to read the text message on the tiny screen. "It's Dottie again... she says she can feel your eyes on the back of her neck and please quit that 'cause you're making her butt crawl."

Noticing that the oily maitre d' was hovering nearby, Sally flipped the phone shut. After inquiring if mesdames had found all to their satisfaction, he announced that their flight was ready to board and that an attendant had arrived to accompany them to the correct gate. They arose, collecting their carryons. At the last second, Elayne picked up the bowl, slurped down the rest of the champagne and thrust the empty container at the astonished man.

"Waste not, want not," she declared with a not-so-dainty burp and they trotted toward a pony-tailed cheerful-looking young woman in green and yellow livery.

 _ **Distance from Heathrow International Airport to Leeds Bradford International Airport: 170 miles**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13:**_ **A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE**

 **The approaching rider turned out to be Steve** on Julia's big red hunter, a mare Ian had rehabilitated after being injured in a transport accident. Julia favored tall horses and Fancy was huge, the disfiguring scars on her chest and legs not detracting from the overall grace of her Thoroughbred lineage. Steve reined in a little too sharply and attempted an untidy dismount while the mare was still skittering.

"If Julia'd seen the way you just pulled that horse's mouth, it'd be the last time you ever got to ride her!" Dora called down disapprovingly from her perch.

"What? Oh... sorry!" Looking back up at his wife and the two hectic spots of red on her cheeks, Steve experienced a panicked moment. Something had upset her and it probably wasn't just the unintended mistreatment of the horse. Had Jesse had already spilled the beans? Probably not, he concluded in a split second—Jesse'd been too adamant that that wasn't his responsibility.

He decided his best bet was to play it cool. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Mom's just dispensing maternal advice and guilt trips, as usual."

"Mind if I cut in?" Steve queried mildly, giving his son a pointed look that plainly said 'get lost'.

"Not at all. You probably just saved me from the same old argument."

Needing no further prompting, Jesse slid off the boulder and reached out for Fancy's reins. "Trade you?"

Steve nodded his assent, then Jesse climbed aboard. "See you back at the house." Wheeling the red mare around and giving her the heel, Jesse departed without a backward glance.

 **Steve looked back up** to where Dora was sitting prim and unsmiling, knees and ankles together, hands folded in her lap, looking for all the world like a queen on her throne.

"You're not going to make me climb up there are you?" he wheedled.

"No. I'll come down."

"Jump... I'll catch you!"

"Don't be ridiculous. We'd break both our necks. I said I'll come down." And she did. He reached out to her but she stepped just out of reach.

"Changed your mind... or just got your important business out of the way?" Her tone was caustic. Clearly she was in a prickly mood. Once again Steve wondered what, if anything, their son had divulged prior to his arrival.

"Yes, I did... and no, I didn't. I just... wanted to be with you."

Dora untied Questor and, taking up the reins, swung into the saddle. "Well. So. Now you're here," she said unnecessarily.

Steve sighed and turned to Jerry, wincing at the sudden pain in his right knee. He didn't think she'd seen but she had and the crankiness evaporated, to be replaced with concern.

"What have you done to yourself?" she demanded... but softly.

It took an unaccustomed effort but after maneuvering Jerry around to a small boulder from which he could step off, Steve managed to hoist himself into the saddle with a grimace. "Twisted my knee... guess I'm a little too old for flying dismounts."

"I guess you are," Dora retorted, aiming Questor back in the direction of the stables.

 **Without further comment** she led the way back down the hill past the house, turning off on the bridle path leading to the Spirit Pond. By unspoken mutual consent, they dismounted and sat side by side on the bank of the little hidden lake in the woods, in the exact spot where—on a sunny day a lifetime ago—Dora'd hoped for a declaration of love and instead had gotten a declamation of rejection from the man she loved and had felt her heart shatter. Water long under the bridge… but she could still taste the hurt of that day as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday. Surely it couldn't be happening again. It just... couldn't. Outwardly maintaining a cool and collected composure, Dora felt tendrils of fear crawling through her veins. At the same time she intuited that the man beside her, staring into the water, was more frightened than she was.

"Steve... look at me," she said softly. He raised his haunted eyes to hers. "Before you say anything... I love you. I always have and I always will, no matter what. Nothing will ever change that. Trust me. Tell me what's wrong..."

 **He almost did...** but the right words wouldn't come. Instead he said, "I was going to ask you the same question. You're not sleeping. You barely pick at your food. Sometimes you look at me as if... as if I were a stranger. Are you ill, Dora, or is it... are you just tired of us... of me? What can I say... what can I do to make you happy again?"

Her mouth fell open in astonishment. "Did you not hear what I just said? I love you, Steven Ross... more than life itself. How could you possibly believe I'd ever tire of you? I admit I've had some things on my mind lately..."

She went on to describe the flashbacks she'd been experiencing, the terror of possibly losing her mental faculties, the fears that memories once regained in their entirety—if ever—would reveal something ugly and painful in their shared history that they thought they'd put behind them... and—worse—the premonition that something even more upsetting would be forthcoming in the near future. Then she cried and he put his arms around her and held her tightly against his chest.

When her tears subsided, Steve drew back so that he could see her face. "I have something to tell you, too, sweetheart..." he began. But again his courage failed. "The same thing's been happening to me... exactly the same thing... and I'm scared, Dora."

"Me too." Dora stood up abruptly, brushing off leaves, and reached a hand down to her husband. "But we can deal with this... whatever it is... together, as we've always done. Come, let's go home." She put her arms around him and kissed him.

 **As they walked back to their horses,** Dora cut her eyes at Steve. "This may sound crazy, but I'm actually relieved. I was afraid you were about to tell me you were leaving me... that you'd found someone else."

"And I was afraid you were going to tell me the same," Steve admitted ruefully. " _On both sides, thus is simple truth suppressed._ "

"Shakespeare again?"

"He always manages to cut straight to the chase, doesn't he?"

Dora gave him a sad smile. "After all these years, we still don't really trust each other, do we? What a right pair of fools we are..."

Steve didn't know what to say to that. Turning to remount Jerry, he realized he now had a problem and gave Dora a sheepish glance. "Could you... uh...?"

Shaking her head with a smile, Dora intertwined her fingers to form a sling. "Allow me!"

 **Jesse hadn't gone to the house.** Instead he'd hung around the stables, worried and impatient, waiting for his parents to return and fearing the worst. When they finally appeared on the path he hurriedly stamped out the cigarette (not his first) that he'd bummed from his second cousin Edward Jackson Stryker. Jack had handed them over without complaint. He'd been promised a summer at the Montana ranch if he achieved his school leaving certificate and he was eagerly looking forward to learning the cowboy way.

Jesse and Yvonne had made a pact to quit smoking before their wedding but the urge still came upon him in moments of high stress—for instance, while awaiting the birth of each of their daughters. And every time Vonda had come out of her postpartum languor long enough to give him unholy hell about it, too. This certainly qualified as one of those stressful moments.

The senior Rosses were companionably walking their horses side by side. Jack went to open the yard gate to admit them and Jesse moved to meet them as they dismounted. Jack led the horses away. Searching their faces for signs of battle, he saw none. He thought, but wasn't sure, that his mother'd been crying. Steve's face was drawn but he managed a wink at his son, indicating all was well. Both hands were jammed firmly in the pockets of his windcheater, a familiar pose. Dora cocked her head at Jesse and placed both hands on her hips.

"Wipe that look off your face, son. No one's dead... yet. I haven't hit anyone in over forty years and I'm not about to do it now. We just have a few things to sort out." Then she sniffed disapprovingly. "Better not let Yvonne catch you at that." She strolled away to speak with Jack.

 **Jesse sidled up next to his father.** " _A few things to sort out?_ You didn't tell her, did you?" he hissed.

"No. Couldn't." Steve had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"Oh Dad!" Jesse pleaded. "You can't afford to procrastinate much longer."

"I know, I know! Don't press me. I have to do this in my own time and my own way."

"You ask me, there is no time and there is no good way... you just have to tell it like it is."

"Well, nobody asked you, did they?"

Jesse turned away from his father, forlorn and angry in the knowledge that the longer this was put off, the more complicated it would be. Worst-case scenario: that Dad would chicken out and not tell Mom at all! Surely Dad didn't think he could get away with waiting until Vonda and the girls arrived along with their unexpected entourage, then suddenly springing a strange boy on her unannounced with a ' _guess who's coming to dinner?_ '

 **Jesse had every faith** in his mother's ability to bounce back from adversity, from devastating events such as Julia's inability to have a baby and Michael's choosing to come out of the closet at a major family gathering. But this was something altogether different. As far as Dora believed, their family circle was complete and would remain unchanged aside from future weddings and births. Beyond that, divorces were always a possibility and deaths inevitable. Insertion into that circle of a fully-grown individual plus his father and the rest of his family would not be accomplished without an unimaginable amount of shock, adjustment, soul-searching and forgiveness. Loyalties would be strained—hell, they were strained right now. Beyond a shadow of a doubt Jesse believed his mother needed, and deserved, forewarning of what was about to be dropped on her. If Dad wouldn't or couldn't provide that, then he himself would have to go over Dad's head and do it for him.

"Are you planning on standing there like a hitching post all day? We're going back to the house now. Come along and have your lunch."

Jesse jumped at the sound of his mother's voice. He hoped he didn't look too guilty.

"Yeah, sure, Mom... uh... Mum... coming..."

 **THE OBAMA SUITE**

 _ **Not quite two hours later,**_ the gleaming pearl white limousine that had whisked the travelers from the Leeds-Bradford airport to Harrogate pulled up under the six-lane portico at the main entrance of the five-plus-star ultra-luxury Branson Royaume-Virgin Hotel, the newest and most pretentious hostelry in the City of Harrogate and the first such establishment erected in Great Britain by the well-known global business magnate. It had been designed to replicate the extravagant Biltmore Estate in the United States, which itself was based on the châteaux of the Loire Valley. Constructed on a sprawling eighty-acre reserve in the suburbs, it offered every conceivable amenity and outstanding views from every suite.

The limo decanted two well-dressed though slightly disheveled women of mature years, listing ever so slightly to starboard. The Danish doorman—who could scent big bucks at a thousand paces—immediately summoned two of his likeliest lads, a brace of Portuguese porters, to offer their arms in assisting the dames through to the lobby. The lugubrious Belgian managing the reception desk recognized Lady Elayne Passepartout Butler at once and immediately alerted the General Manager, who galloped out of his office where he'd been enjoying the remains of his tea. He careered around the corner of the counter to seize the Lady's outstretched hand and bow over it.

A normally staid Scotsman who disdained Americans on general principle, the General Manager was nonetheless well-acquainted with this particular guest and still referred to her as 'milady' (although she had been neither a Lady nor a Butler for three decades). He fawned to the soles of his spit-shined Ferragamos for a very good reason that transcended all proprieties of address: Milady was worth bargeloads of beans and extravagantly lavish in her dispensation of gratuities. Her arrivals were so highly anticipated that staff had been known to come to blows over who was to porter her luggage and deliver room service.

 **The General Manager had earlier** checked the reservations list: Calhoun... that was her current name, and her companion a Mrs. Something-or-Other-Unpronounceable-FrancoItalianate. Years of experience had honed to the nth degree his ability to accurately gauge levels of wealth and/or breeding. The other woman exuded a distinct aura of both and one could never be too careful.

"Lady Bu... erm... Calhoun, how very splendid to see you again!"

"Nice to see you, too, Dougie. Glad ta be here!" Elayne pumped his hand vigorously, slurring her words only a little.

'Dougie' MacDougall winced but his voice never wavered as he turned to welcome the newcomer. "Madame... ah...?"

Elayne peered around and leaned over toward him conspiratorially. He leaned toward her expectantly. "It's 'Duchess', actually... my cousin, La Duchessa Marie-Solánge Passepartout di Camerata of Provincia di Kalispellini," Elayne improvised, "That's in northern Panettone, ya know. But keep it under yer toupée, will ya? She's travelin' incognito!" Sally shot her a startled look but didn't contradict her.

General Manager MacDougall's eyebrows crawled up to the faux hairline of his very realistic and extremely expensive rug. "Certainly, milady. Absolutely on the QT! Shall I have champagne sent up to your suite immediately?"

"You betcha!" Elayne piped up.

"Absolutely not!" 'La Duchessa' interjected sternly in suspiciously unaccented American English. "We shall be requiring coffee AND tea. Very hot. Extra strong. Cream and sugar. Meyer lemons. And biscotti."

"Very good, Madame... er... Your Grace. We'll have it up to you in a jiffy!" McDougall snatched up the nearest phone on the service desk, stabbed speed-dial to the kitchen and barked out orders. "Now, if you will allow me..."

 **In the meantime a minor scuffle** had broken out between the two puny Polish porters who had ferried in the carry-on luggage and a pair of behemoth Botswanian bellhops intent on wrenching it away from them. (The Botswanians won.) With the General Manager himself ostentatiously leading the procession, the ladies perambulated unsteadily in the direction of the elevator banks, supported by the imperious Iberians and trailed by the victorious Africans each cradling a very small carry-on bag.

As the lift doors opened on the sixth floor, the disembarking party observed the doors of the elevator at the far end of the corridor opening simultaneously. A stout Maldivian maid with her cap askew emerged at breakneck speed, trundling a trolley laden with two enormous silver urns and a variety of unidentified silver-covered objects. She beat them to the door of their suite by a scant three seconds but had to wait as General Manager MacDougall unlocked and ceremoniously flung open the double doors to the Obama Suite with a flourish.

The half-dozen sixth-floor 'presidential' suites were each named after an American president and decorated accordingly. The Eisenhower Administration was represented by World War II brass-and-khaki memorabilia. The Kennedy period showcased Boston's lace-curtain Irish finery. The Reagan era was all Hollywood glitz, glamour and posters. The Carter ensemble took one back in time to a typical south Georgia peanut farmer's house with faux kerosene lanterns, occasional tables fashioned from peach crates and barn doors, and sofas converted from the bench seats of 1960s-vintage Chevrolets perched on concrete blocks. The Obama Suite was done up to resemble an upscale Kenyan safari lodge complete with trophy heads, animal hide rugs, Masai spears, colorful batik wall hangings and mosquito netting enclosing the beds. (The sixth suite, as yet undedicated and unfurnished, was being held in reserve for the next sitting president.)

 **After what seemed like an eternity,** aunt and niece at last found themselves alone. Both were too tired to take in the view of the spectacular gardens visible through the windows of the sumptuous if garishly decorated two-bedroom suite's connecting lounge.

"One more cuppa coffee an' my kidneys're gonna explode," Elayne declared after they'd drained most of a pot and eaten all the biscotti. "I ain't gonna sleep for two weeks."

"I'm too tired to think. There's no way I can conduct any sort of business this afternoon... maybe not even this evening," Sally moaned.

"Me neither. My wits're tee-totally scrambled. But I reckon I oughta call an' at least let Dora an' Dottie know we're here."

"No... don't... not yet," Sally protested. "I vote we both take a nap first. Maybe after we've slept off some of this jetlag we'll be better able to think coherently."

"I think you might be right about the shut-eye," Elayne agreed. "Lucky for us they got an Elemis spa right downstairs for when we wake up. They'll fix us right up!"

The two schlepped off to their respective bedrooms to shuck off their clothes and slide between the 1,500 thread count 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, where both promptly fell into a deep sleep... caffeine notwithstanding... secure in the belief that their arrival had occasioned no interest and had gone unremarked.

 _ **However, as they'd been checking in,**_ the Honorable Felicia Fotheringill-Thwaite had just returned from a call of nature to the ground-floor meeting room where every Saturday afternoon she and eleven of her closest cronies—all prominently annotated in Burke's Peerage—gathered to intrigue, plot and scheme, exchange juicy tidbits of gossip, imbibe prodigious quantities of (medicinal) liquors and indulge in appropriately ladylike games of chance... Texas Hold 'Em being their current card game of choice.

"Girls!" she huffed importantly as she steamed into the room. "You'll _never_ guess who I just saw checking in!"

"Who?" eleven tremorous voices trilled in unison, their aristocratic noses aquiver.

"Elayne Butler... bold as brass and stewed to the gills!" Lady Felicia announced triumphantly. "With another woman... no doubt another disgusting American tramp, I thought—but... and you'll never believe this!—she's Eyetalian nobility! It's supposed to be a secret. Douglas (the General Manager from Glasgow) told Jean-Paul (the Belgian desk clerk from Namur) to tell Madame Bellepoitrine Ptomayne (head of food service—originally Betty Lou Hogg of Razorback, Tennessee) to have a full coffee service sent up to Lady Butler and 'La Duchessa' in the Obama Suite. The room service maid (Raisha of the Maldives) told one of the housekeeping maids (Polina of Belarus) who told one of the janitorial staff (Romario of Jamaica) who told the powder room attendant (Winifred of Whistledown) and I got it straight from her!"

"Who is she?"

"Didn't catch the name... but I'll have it before the day's out, mark my words!"

The party of 'genarians'—consisting of six septuas, four octos, and two nonas-—had from the get-go despised, reviled and vilified the bottle-blonde low-born arriviste American tart who had succeeded in snatching from beneath their noses the obscenely wealthy and highly desirable widower Sir Hughes Butler... and their opinions had not improved in the forty-something years since. The insufferable baggage was back... and with a mysterious Mediterranean royal in tow. This was hot stuff! Twelve trembling hands rapidly delved into pocketbooks to retrieve smartphones. Twenty-four arthritic thumbs viciously pounded keys at telegraphic speed. Within forty-five minutes the ripple effect had spread the news to the far corners of the county.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14:**_ **PUSHING THE PANIC BUTTON**

 **At breakfast earlier,** Dorothy'd sagely been keeping her own counsel, her still excellent hearing keenly attuned to nuances and her still bright (though not quite as sharp) blue eyes peeled for telltale expressions when Dora challenged Jesse. To her disgust, nothing of any great import was mentioned.

When she was sure they'd gone, she scurried to her suite and tossed aside her dressing gown. Wiggled into the first garments that came to hand—UnderArmor® fleece warm-up suit (purple with pink piping). Struggled into her Venosan® Silverline™ Support Hose and Adidas® Philotes™ trainers by Stella McCartney (white with pink trim). Cleaned her teeth (still nature's own, thank you very much) with her Philips Sonicair® HealthyWhite™ electric toothbrush. Dusted her face with Coty® Airspun™ translucent face powder. Swiped her lips with Revlon's® Super Lustrous™ lipcolor ('Temptress' pink). Ran an heirloom art deco tapestry filigree hairbrush over her blue-white curls. Tied on a vintage Hermès® silk scarf (pink and purple paisley). Checked the contents of her pink leather retro Prada® Queen Mother™ pocketbook (checkbook, folding money, debit card, hanky, lipstick, SureShot® Millenium Invincible™ guaranteed 100% alder wand with gold band). Tossed in her brand spanking new T-Mobile® Android™ Quattro smartphone (pink). Grabbed her Superdry® windbreaker (purple) and the keys to her shocking pink Hummer® H6™ electric cart. Adjusted her Christian Dior® cats-eye trifocals (mock tortoiseshell with rhinestones).

Dorothy Maire Treadwell Doyle Jones—not-quite-retired White Witch, Platinum Wand Level, Gold Cauldron Certified—was ready to rumble.

 **Parents and son'd eaten lunch** at the kitchen table rather than in the dining room. Steve'd gone to go pick up Ron. Jesse loaded crockery and utensils into the dishwasher while his mother put food back in the fridge. Miz Bee would've pitched a hissy had she not been occupied elsewhere in the house.

"I noticed when we were walking back that Dot's cart's gone," Dora remarked. "But she should've been back from the farm by now. It's not like her to miss a meal."

"I'll give her a buzz. I imagine she just stuck around and had lunch with the boys."

"You're probably right."

Jesse frowned as his call to Dottie went unanswered; he keyed off and redialed the North Barn extension. Dora could overhear his side of the exchange as she finished tidying up. "She's not? Was she there earlier? When did they leave? Did she say where they were going? No... no... I'm sure eveything's all right. Okay... thanks... bye."

Dora gave Jesse a puzzled look as he snapped the phone closed. "What is it?"

"That was Bill Chadwick. He said Dodo got there about thirty minutes after he saw us riding by on the lane this morning. She asked Mr. Statham to drive her to Harrogate and they left hours ago. The only reason he knew that was because Blair was supposed to go pick up a pony but he asked Bill if he'd go for him."

"Perhaps she just had a notion to go shopping, but I can't imagine why she wouldn't have waited and asked me. I would've taken her."

"Maybe she didn't feel like waiting. Maybe some new widget went on sale today at the Apple store and she just had to have it, like, right now." Dottie had embraced the digital age with joyous abandon. Any new product preceded by an 'i' had to be hers immediately if not sooner.

"Except there isn't one in Harrogate, as I well know, as many trips as we've made to the one in Manchester!"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Mo... Mum. She'll turn up when she's ready."

"I suppose you're right," Dora sighed, then brightened. "You haven't been down to the farm since you arrived... why don't we walk down and I'll show you what's new since your last visit? Unless you have something more important to do..."

Jesse bussed his mother on the cheek. "Nothing's more important than you... Mum."

 **Dora and Jesse headed toward the North Barn** by way of the path meandering around the south façade of Hollin Hall and through the iron gates in the stone wall. An elaborate network of attractive wrought-iron fencing separated public areas (the Rescue Centre) from private ones (the residences). All were connected by self-closing and locking gates to which only authorized personnel had key codes controlling ingress and egress.

Over the years, additional features—geared toward families with younger children—had been added to the basic rescue facility, mostly due to Julia's foresight that additional operating revenue would be necessary beyond charitable grants, governmental subsidies and the trust. Much of what had been the original west pasture was given over to parkland with gentle walking trails, a wading pool and well-equipped playground, a children's fishing pond, gardens, an interpretive centre and gift shop. Portable toilets were scattered throughout the grounds in addition to a large central restroom facility containing changing stations and bathing sinks, maintenance of which was contracted out. Picnic pavilions were extremely popular although no cooking or fire-building was permitted. A contracted self-contained mobile vendor provided snacks and beverages.

 **Dora had voiced objections** to Jules' proposal that the donations-only arrangement be replaced with a minimal entry fee at the main gate. However, she'd agreed to a trial period. To her astonishment, Julia'd been spot-on in her assessment that people who had to _pay_ for the privilege of visiting an animal rescue farm would place a greater value on the experience, especially if it provided a family-friendly venue for low- and middle-income households who simply couldn't afford the exorbitant prices at a big, noisy amusement park. Jules'd argued... and she'd been right... that many people preferred the safer, more quiet and uncrowded natural environment for an afternoon's outing with their youngsters. Jules'd backed this up by keeping a tracking sheet drawn from the guest registry which proved that most visitors were repeat customers. Donations were always accepted, of course, and it was heartwarming that so many visitors felt compelled to contribute even though they'd already paid to get in. Thus had the 'Follyfoot Rescue Centre _and_ Family Park' come into being.

Proposed new elements were first subjected to intense scrutiny with emphasis on liability potential before being approved or discarded. For instance, it was decided that although pull- and push-carts, buggies, strollers and tricycles for small children would be permitted and available for hire, bicycles, roller skates or skateboards would not. A proposed swimming area for older children and adults at the Ladyfan Lake was nixed because of the difficulty in enforcing parental attendance when parents had younger kids to look after as well.

 **Another of Julia's ideas** —though not a new or unique one—had been reinstitution of 'pony' rides on Saturdays and Sundays (weekdays during school hols). Local teenagers were paid minimum wage to lead the ponies and their miniature jockeys around a small tree-shaded ring while proud parents fired off snaps. Equally popular were the cart rides provided by the farm's llamas, Bonnie and Clyde, and Nubian/Boer crossbred goats, Oprah and Martha.

Any visitors who inquired into horses for hire or riding for the disabled were referred to other area facilities which offered that. The Follyfoot Rescue Centre was a good neighbor and supported local businesses and organizations wherever possible.

A decision made early on by Dora and fully supported by Steve, Julia and Ian was that any new intake arriving in a severely distressed condition was segregated over at Ian's quarantine stable, out of sight of visitors. It was one thing for guests to view a rehabilitated and obviously healthy animal, even if missing an eye or limb... and quite another to be faced with an emaciated, scabrous, apparently near-death rescuee. An adult might understand an abused animal's pre-rehab state, but it would be entirely too disturbing to a small child who wouldn't.

 **Although clouds threatened on the far horizon,** a fair amount of visitors had already streamed through the main gate and all hands were on deck, so to speak. Half of the FollyFellows were welcoming guests and conducting tours while the other half began 'showtime' feeding, mucking out, grooming and exercising (real chores having been accomplished much earlier that morning, of course). It was important, Julia said, that visitors should be able to see such work in progress in order to appreciate the effort that went into caring for the 'living exhibits'. The centre was open to the public every day, and on Sunday didn't open until 1:00p.m. so that those wishing to attend services were free to do so. The keepers rotated days off... the animals didn't.

 **Before reaching the gates** in the stone wall, Jesse and Dora were intercepted by Mr. Chadwick's emergence from the hall's kitchen entrance.

"I've located Missus Dorothy for you!" the man grinned, drying his hands on a dish towel. He pointed back to where Mac stood at the industrial stainless steel sink. "Been helping with the lunch washing up as Jonah's off to the dentist. Mr. Statham finally answered his phone and I asked him. He says he dropped her off at that new hotel, that 'virgin' one." (Here Chadwick blushed, 'virgin' being one of those words generally not used in mixed company.) "Then he went on to the dentist's office with Jonah. Said he'd had his phone turned off in the waiting room but now they're done and on their way back."

"With Dorothy?" Dora asked.

Chadwick shrugged. "He didn't say. I didn't think to ask. But he should be here directly, if you'd like to wait. Tea? Just made some fresh..."

 **They accepted the offer** and lounged with their backsides against the wood block prep table, making conversation with the two men working at the sink and in renewed amazement at how efficiently the one-armed cook was able to perform. Statham arrived five minutes later with a miserable-looking Jonah Atmore but no Dorothy. Statham filled his own mug and they repaired to the office.

"What business did my grandmother have at the hotel, Mr. B?" Jesse inquired.

"Wasn't my place to ask Missus Dorothy and she didn't offer. Just said that's where she wanted to go so I took her. Should I've got permission from you first?"

"No, of course not! She's capable of making her own plans. She's not dotty, you know... I mean, she _is_ Dottie but... oh, you know what I mean!"

Statham's eyes twinkled. "I do, yes. I _can_ tell you she had a burr under her saddle about something. Seemed in an all-fired hurry to get there and told me not to bother waiting around to collect her—she'd make her own way home."

"Hmnnnn. What... erm... what was she wearing? How was she dressed, I mean?"

Statham described in vivid detail Dorothy's ensemble. "She wasn't hard to miss in that get-up!" Hastily adding "and very fetching it was, too! Very... uh... bright and cheerful, I must say! Nice to see on an old... a lady of her age..."

Statham managed to dig himself a deeper hole by adding, "You know, instead of the usual grays and browns... oh... begging your pardon, Mrs. Ross!" He flushed even deeper. Dora was still wearing what she'd thrown on that morning—her favorite old faded brown jodhpurs and an ancient though comfortable snag-ridden gray jumper.

 **Jesse intuited that Blair Statham's** discomfiture was due to other reasons.

"You know something, don't you?" he demanded. "Better tell us before we hear from the police or those nice men in the white coats."

Statham flushed. "Well... that is... I might know something..." he admitted. "But... you know I don't indulge in gossip..."

"Out with it, Blair!" Dora barked, forgetting her own rule. "An eighty-five year old woman dressed like a flamingo shouldn't be allowed out on her own without a minder! Tell what you know!"

Mr. Statham proceeded to explain how, as he was returning to the farm's van after handing over Missus Dorothy to the doorman, his nephew Connor Statham (aka 'Connie' on dress-up nights out), one of the hairdressers at the hotel's spa, was just going off shift. They had stopped to exchange pleasantries ( _not_ gossip!). Con/Connie had divulged that Lady Butler-Thingie had arrived this morning and was ensconced in the Obama Suite along with her traveling companion, la Principessa de Thingie, who was a smasher... for her age.

Dora was stung... Elayne was in town... and hadn't even called her?!

" **So..." Statham was saying,** "knowing that Lady Elayne and Missus Dorothy are very close friends—both being witches and all—I assume that's where she was headed."

Jesse misheard. "Mr. Blair... I don't appreciate your using such language in front of my mother!"

Statham appeared puzzled. "But that's what they are, Mr. Jesse. Everyone's always known that. My own gran was a member of their coven, back in the day and..."

Dora fainted and both men grabbed her just before she hit the floor.

 **Dora quickly regained consciousness** to find herself slumped in an office chair, with Jesse waving an ammonia inhalant ampoule under her nose and Blair Statham vigorously chafing her hands while Bill stood in the doorway wringing his hands. Mac, standing behind him, would have been doing the same had he a second hand to wring.

Jesse's anxious face peered into hers. "Mom... Mum... Mother, what just happened? Are you all right? Should I call for an ambulance?"

"No... no!" she protested. "I just had a little turn, is all... I'll be fine. If I could just have some water, please..."

"Water! Quickly!" Statham barked. Mac and Bill crashed into each other as they made for the kitchen and returned almost instantly with a glass each.

"You should take her back to the house and call the doctor straightaway," Statham opined.

Jesse agreed. "We'll take Dorothy's cart... that'll be fastest."

"I'll get it and bring it around, she always leaves the keys," Bill offered and bounded away.

"There's no need for all this uproar," Dora insisted, and was ignored. The cart was brought around to the door and Jesse picked his mother up and carried her out to it. In parting he requested that Mr. Statham ask his nephew to utilize whatever contacts he had to find out what was going on up in the Obama Suite and in particular to determine if their runaway granny was indeed up there.

 **Back at the house,** they came in through the garage entrance. Dora refused to be carried up the stairs but did allow her son to hold her arm as he marched her to her room. She was hesitant about allowing him to help get off the boots, jodhpurs and jumper, insisting he turn his back while she divested herself of her underwear and slipped on the nightgown she kept under her pillow.

"For heaven's sake, Mom... this is no time for modesty... you forget I live in the House of Hormones!" Jesse complained. "And I'm calling your doctor whether you like it or not. People don't just faint for no reason. If you don't give me the number I'll get it from one of the girls."

Dora grumbled but dictated the number to him. He made the call and got the after-hours service. A few minutes later Dr. Sheffield returned his call, promising to be there within the hour. Jesse made sure Dora was installed in the bed with the covers pulled up and instructed her to stay right where she was, saying that he'd be back in a few minutes to check on her.

 **Jesse ran to his room** to start making calls as he quickly changed clothes, becoming increasingly frustrated as he dialed number after number only to hear 'Please leave a message' or a similar instruction. What was the use of cell phones if people didn't keep them on in the event of an emergency! He charged downstairs into the kitchen and found Miz Bee (today it was Miss Vera) thwacking into submission an enormous wad of rising dough.

"I need a pitcher of water and a glass to take upstairs to Mother. She fainted while we were down at the farm. I've put her to bed and called her doctor to come and have a look at her."

Miss Vera slowly rotated her head, holding up her sticky, floured hands and fixing him with an owl-like stare through her thick-lensed spectacles.

"'Ad one of 'er little turns, 'as she?" she asked calmly.

Jesse paused, "What do you mean, 'one of'? Have there been others?"

"Aye." The cook didn't seem especially surprised or alarmed.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Quite a bit, 'ere lately. First I 'eard 'er fainted over it, mind you."

"Does my father know? Has she said anything to him about it?"

"Don't think so, no. Don't want to worry 'im, see. Same as 'e don't want to worry 'er about 'is turns, when they comes."

"Say what?" Jesse's mouth fell open. "You mean... both of them have been ill and they're keeping it from each other?"

"T'ain't sick," Miss Vera said lugubriously, having returned to her kneading. "Just that old spell wearin' off. Soon's they remembers everythin' they'll be fit as butcher's dogs... or not."

Jesse stared at her blankly. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I just know that my mother is ill and I can't get in touch with anybody."

"Calm yersel', laddie." With a sigh, Miz Bee abandoned the dough bowl and moved to the sink to wash and dry her hands before plugging in the electric kettle. "What your mum needs to set 'er right is a nice cuppa. What she don't need is you flappin' an' yappin' all around an' gettin' 'er all upsot. You go find that Vi'let an' send 'er back 'ere. I'll have a tray ready for 'er to take upstairs an' she'll set with Miz Dora all quiet-like. Then you get out the way an' stay out the way 'til that lady doctor gets here." Beginning to assemble tea things on a tray on the counter, she added with a sniff, "An' that's me advice."

Feeling himself both chastised and dismissed, Jesse slunk out of the door to search for the elusive maid, whom he finally located stocking towels in the downstairs bathroom. The girl immediately abandoned her task and headed for the kitchen while Jesse took up a station at the front door, where he continued dialing phone numbers.

 **WITCHES IN WINDSUITS**

 _ **Meanwhile, back at the hotel...**_ Elayne pried open a gummy eyelid and fixed a malevolently bleary eye on her smartphone, skittering merrily on the bedside table just out of reach while tinkling out the 'Wicked Witch' theme for the umpteenth time. She mumbled a freeze spell and it fell blessedly silent. But of course, now that she was awake there was an urgent need to visit the loo... which meant she had to get up and out of the bed. A peek at the bedside digital alarm clock and a secondary glance into the mirror over the bathroom vanity confirmed two unhappy realizations... she'd only had an hour's rest and she looked like something disinterred from Tutankhamun's Tomb. Mission accomplished, she was considering crawling back into bed when there came a knock on her door.

"Auntie Elayne... wakey wakey!"

Sally didn't wait for an invitation but flung the door open. "Would you _please_ answer your phone?! Dottie is driving me crazy!" Even as she spoke, her own smartphone began playing 'The Ride of the Valkyries'. Sally was in slightly better shape than her aunt... but only just.

The room phone rang and Elayne picked it up. "Guiseppe's Bar an' Grill... oh hi there Jean-Luc... yeah and a gracious howdy to you, too... nah, I hadda get up to answer the phone anyway... oh yeah?... oh, she is? Yeah... that's my cousin Dodo... no, I'm ain't havin' you on... you go ahead an' send her on up, okay. Thanks a bunch, Jean-Luc. Yer a sweetheart!" Elayne made kissy noises into the phone and rang off, then immediately redialed for room service. "Is it too late for brunch? Yes. Fine. You decide, we're not picky. Oh... better make that for three... no, four. Yes... four people. Thirty minutes? Yes, that'll be dandy. Thanks." She hung up.

 _ **A few minutes later**_ there came a pounding at the doors to the suite, which Sally answered to reveal a short stocky elderly person resembling an animated fuchsia (variety 'Roessee Blacky') and a nervous reservations manager. Dottie 'DoDo' Jones marched in after flinging a venomous scowl at the hapless Jean-Luc who had thought it prudent to personally accompany the furiously insistent and possibly deranged elderly woman upstairs.

Even at her worst (and at her age), Sally was still a fine-looking woman who commanded attention and she certainly had his. Her unbound silver hair, impossibly thick and lustrous, streamed about her shoulders and almost to her waist. She fixed her large amber eyes on his pale watery blue ones and spoke softly, hypnotically.

"You will now return to your station and you will not speak of this person's presence to anyone. You and anyone in your immediate vicinity will deny having seen her. You will inform anyone who inquires that the Lady and La Duchessa are incommunicado but are accepting written messages. You will not disturb us other than to hand-deliver said messages. No hotel staff will recall having served us. That is all. You may go."

"Very good, Your Grace," the Belgian intoned, bowing robotically and chugging away down the corridor.

Behind her, Dottie snickered. "La Duchessa? What's all that about?"

Greetings, hugs and kisses went around then Dottie threw disapproving looks at the two other women. "This won't do at all, girls. We have much work ahead of us. Both of you... hop in the shower and get dressed."

 _ **After advising Dottie**_ to be on the lookout for room service brunch on its way, the two disappeared into their respective bedrooms, emerging thirty minutes later with hair more or less repaired, makeup in place and warm-up suits similar to Dottie's—buttery yellow with brown accents for Sally and British racing green with silver trim for Elayne. All three tucked into the excellent selections even though Dottie'd just eaten a few hours ago (she never turned down free food). Shortly after staff (Raisha and her kinswoman Ayesha) had whisked away the trolley and removed the crockery but leaving the coffee service, a pair of widely grinning Guianian porters (Cleménte and Armine) muscled in a large round mahogany table to displace the smaller one that normally occupied the lounge.

Elayne and Sally set about unpacking their extensive wardrobes, having previously resisted the complimentary valet's efforts to do that for them—thus greatly disappointing Deirdre from Dublin who was intensely curious as to how these women, or any woman, could possibly manage traveling with only one relatively modest piece of luggage each (56cm x 45cm x 25cm per British Airways restrictions). If she'd paid attention to the prominently emblazoned logos (TARDISette® Intergalactic Traveller™), she might or might not've had a clue without having to view the contents.

Dottie meanwhile was exchanging text messages with Hazel who was still trapped at home with her three hyperactive granddaughters (too much sugared breakfast cereal) while awaiting the arrival of the sitters, two other older granddaughters who were already late. Hazel of course wanted to know what the other three were wearing so she could coordinate.

 _ **Done with the clothes**_ and personal items (including an inflatable donut for Elayne who was inclined to certain personal discomforts particularly after a long flight), Elayne and Sally proceeded to extract laptops, lined notepads and other minutiae of office operations until the mahogany table had taken on the appearance of a military command post. Other miscellaneous items were set off to the side for future use except the box containing a round inflatable miniature (18in x 8in) scrying pool plus electric pump (ScryAll® Deluxe Personal Portable™ by Nanjing Pegasus Recreation Equipment Co. Ltd.). After Elayne had it blown up and installed it on a bit of open floor space as far from the windows as possible to avoid glare interference, the other two used ice buckets to fetch water from the bathrooms. Sally located a footstool for Elayne, who would be manning the equipment, to sit on. ("I get down on my knees I won't never get up again!")

" _ **Okay ladies, let's get this show on the road,"**_ Elayne commanded, clapping her hands briskly. "We'll have to catch up Hazel when she gets here. Dorothy... would you lead off with an update?"

"As you already know, yesterday Jesse informed Steve that he was about to be visited by the ghost of summer 1994 past. As to be expected, Steve didn't take it very well but he can't deny the reality of his situation. As far as I know at this point, he hasn't told Dora yet.

"For both of them, the..." Dottie paused. "What's an antonym for memory lapse?"

"I don't think there is one... we're referring to them as 'flashbacks'," Sally said.

"Right. That'll do. These flashbacks are occurring more frequently and more clearly. They've both become obsessed with trying to remember what happened That Week. They're both worried they're losing their marbles. They haven't talked about this with anyone else yet much less each other... except of course Dora told me and Steve might have said something to Ron on account of Ron told Hazel he suspected Steve might be having an affair and Hazel told me the same thing about Dora this morning except she didn't believe Dora would do such a thing but I told her... oh... and I did have to explain to Hazel about the memory block..."

"Dottie!" Elayne interrupted. "Do try to keep to the thread, dear. I meant, what are they doing _right now?_ "

" _ **Oh... well... let's see.**_ We had breakfast. Everyone left except Steve, Dora and Jesse. Not counting Vera Barton and the maids, of course. Steve told her he was too busy to go hacking with her and—let me tell you!—she was not best pleased..."

"Dorothy!" Elayne reprimanded.

"I'm getting there!" Dottie snapped back. "As I was saying, Steve went to his study. Dora told Jesse he'd have to go with her and they left. I went down to the Farm and got Blair Statham to drive me here... he's sweet on me, you know, but he really isn't my type... Anyway, Steve and Ron are going to look at some sort of boat this afternoon, _he says_ , and I don't know what excuse he's given her... he's never shown any interest in sailing before! Ron's starting to have flashbacks, too... so Hazel says... but he's not as far along as the others. It's possible they—he and Steve—might get around to talking about that while they're on the road. Hazel says Ron said something about how he might bring it up..."

"Statham... Statham... didn't he used to own that big racing stable...?"

"The very one... fell on hard times, he did. Lost everything. Lives at Follyfoot now with the rest of the geezers."

"Which has nothing to do with our problem," Sally interjected. "What's Dora doing today, do you know? With everyone out of the house?"

"Haven't the foggiest... and Jesse's still there, don't forget, plus Vera and the maids, so it isn't feasible to go over there and beard the lioness in her den, so to speak. And that's where we are at the moment. Have you any ideas, either of you?"

 _ **Elayne drummed her fingernails**_ on the tabletop. "Sally and I agree it might be best to tackle her first but we're not sure if this would best done before or after Steve tells her about the boy. You are aware, are you not, that he's Sally's grandson as well?"

Dottie was surprised. "No. I didn't know that. Oh my. That does present complications! And explains why she's here with you. I was wondering about that..." Her eyebrows knitted in a frown as she glanced at Sally. "Hang on... as I recall, weren't you married to that..."

"Yes. Still am."

"Oh my stars and garters! If this isn't the best drawing room farce ever! Straight out of P.G. Wodehouse. Noël or Oscar couldn't have done better!" Dottie slapped her thigh and guffawed then abruptly turned serious. "I trust this doesn't adversely affect your objectivity?"

"Not at all," Sally answered serenely. "I'm here to help. I want what's best for my grandson and I was after all indirectly involved with getting Steve and Dora together in the first place. As much as any of you, I have a personal interest in seeing that they stay together."

"I just want to be sure you don't harbor any grudges... I assume you know about the..."

"The Kiss," Sally said. "Yes, of course. And I took it into account at the time as a necessary adjunct to accomplishment of the mission."

"Been me, I woulda turned him into a..."

"Elayne! Don't even go there!"

"Just sayin'..."

"Well, just don't!"

Dottie chimed in with prurient interest. "Are you real sure they didn't... you know?... because I was never 100% sure myself. Good thing that first baby looked like a Ross!"

"Didn't happen. If it had, I would've known."

" _ **Back on topic, girls!"**_ Elaine said loudly, just as there was a knock on the door. She got up to answer it and admitted Hazel, resplendent in a sleek black faux leather windcheater with skin-tight spandex leggings and black high-top Nike® running shoes. More greetings, hugs and kisses were dispensed and Hazel joined them at the command post.

"So, what's up? Do we have a plan yet?" she asked ingenuously.

Elayne screwed up her face. Sally rolled her eyes. Dorothy sighed.

"I see. Well, I've come up with a couple of ideas, last night and on the way over... if you're interested," Hazel offered shyly. "I mean, I know I'm not certified or anything... but..."

"Any contributions are welcome," Marie-Solánge said.

"We need all the help we can get," Dorothy-Maire exclaimed.

"Hazel Marie has the floor... the table... whatever!" Marie-Elayne dictated.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15:**_ **CONFESSIONS ON A RAINY AFTERNOON**

 **Earlier that day...** The three-year-old teal-green Land Rover® LR4™ SUV rolled along the A59 at a conservative 55mph, approaching York's A1237/A19 roundabout from the west as the passenger lounged in the leather upholstery, taking in the countryside's autumnal splendor.

Ron'd been thinking about his children, actually... about how fortunate he and Hazel'd been in that all of theirs'd settled in or close to their hometown whereas the two Ross sons'd made their homes abroad. At least the Ross daughters'd stayed close at hand. He and Hazel had so much to be thankful for. To the best of his knowledge, all the Stryker offspring—and _their_ children—were hearty, healthy and financially secure thanks to Stryker Automotive Enterprises, Ltd., the consortium he'd built starting with the two sales lots and three garages inherited from his father.

The Premium Motors Division, with showrooms in Harrogate (headquarters), York and Leeds, was ably managed by elder daughter Candace (the former Mrs. Edward Morgan and mother of uni student Ariadne). Eldest son Evan profitably (and honestly!) ran four Quality Pre-Owned Motors lots in the area along with his wife Arlene (parents of one son and two daughters). Another three 'pre-owned' motors locations were overseen by James (married to Janet—two sons, two daughters), who lived on the outskirts of Tockwith less than a mile away from the senior Strykers. Son-in-law John Jenkins (husband of Elizabeth and father of four boys) assisted CEO Morgan at PMD; they lived in Harrogate close by Candace. And Jason the architect'd married the former Sarah Prudence Ross and produced three daughters.

 **Ron'd be the first** to cheerfully admit that his business success'd been due more to luck than diligence. Having turned over to his children almost all the hands-on aspects of management, Ron was free to do pretty much as he pleased these days (within wife-imposed limitations). He golfed, he fished, he played cards every Wednesday night with other gentlemen of leisure, and routinely dabbled in money-making deals of one kind or another. Folks who remembered him as a young layabout notorious for avoiding work and mingling with 'bad elements' snidely remarked that he was reverting to his youth.

Affordable holiday boating—and the potentially profitable rental business—was Ron's latest scheme which he'd put up to Steve on Saturday while they were out riding with their sons and sons-in-law. They could co-purchase a modest sailboat or cabin cruiser—large enough to accommodate at least two couples and several guests. They could berth it in one of the quaint tourist-infested hamlets along the coast of Cornwall... or perhaps a similar locale in the Channel Islands. If the venture proved successful they could add more vessels and in time expand their fleet, which they could call 'Stryker & Ross Bluewater Adventures'... yes, that had a nice ring to it.

Unlike Ron—who as a child had spent many happy hours sailing with his dad (before their relationship'd soured)—Steve had no interest in boating or watersports of any kind. He'd initially declined Ron's request to accompany future Admiral Stryker on the trip to Kingston to inspect the boat. Then, inexplicably, he'd rung up late last night saying he'd changed his mind and wanted to tag along after all... except Steve would be doing the driving, keeping in mind Ron's proclivity for speeding. So, Ron hadn't exactly lied to Hazel... it'd been more like massaging the truth in order to avoid her putting the kibosh on his plans... as she was prone to do.

 **Ron glanced over at Steve's profile,** contemplating how best to broach to his friend the delicate subject of his recent aberrational behavior. One simply did not come right out and stick his beak, uninvited, into another man's apparent latent mid-life crisis... no matter how close they were. At sixty-four and sixty-two, respectively, Ron and Steve were still some years away from official retirement age. Their relationship was on a par with Hazel and Dora's in that they considered themselves brothers and best friends. It hadn't always been that way.

They'd got along well enough as workmates at Follyfoot in the early seventies, but widely divergent attitudes and personalities'd prevented the formation of any sort of close bond. Only much later had they come to regard their friendship as _close_ —after their respective marriages, with both couples sharing the old farmhouse premises for almost two years, both men doing their core classes together at the adult education centre, celebrating their first-borns together. They'd remained fairly tight even after each pair'd taken up their own households and the men'd followed different career paths which intersected only infrequently for many years. Now, with Ron 'retired' and Steve 'semi-retired', they'd been finding time to slowly renew and reaffirm that friendship.

Keeping in mind Hazel's admonition about 'keeping it cool', Ron cast about for an appropriate conversation starter. At that moment a silver BMW convertible cruised by, well over the speed limit in the next lane. In it were four laughing girls with their long hair streaming in the wind, who waved gaily as they sailed past. Ron waved back and whistled.

 **Steve shook his head.** "Act your age, mate. You're old enough to be their granddad."

"Don't hurt to look, do it?" Ron grinned and slumped in his seat. "Sometimes I think we married too young, you and me. D'ya ever regret all the free and easy loverlies we had to pass up when we went off to uni?"

Steve hesitated. "Maybe... occasionally."

"And you gone from home all the time, off on your tours... musta been all kinds of willin' women poppin' out of the woodwork..."

Steve acknowledged that, yes, there had been... still were, as a matter of fact.

"Weren't you ever tempted? You know... what the cat does while he's away, the mouse at home don't have to know about..."

" _You_ may find this hard to believe, Ron, but I've never been unfaithful—not from the day we married. I love my wife."

Ron took mock offense. "I love mine as well! Although there's been times... you wouldn't believe the offers that have come my way over the years."

Steve declined to comment and another five minutes of silence ensued as Ron made an entry in his Report to Hazel virtual notebook: 'Claims no straying ever/no current mistress.'

"Have you heard?" Ron chuckled. "Lewis and Wendy are finally calling it quits..."

Steve snorted. "Too bad. If any two people deserved each other, it's those two."

"Yeah. Hazel says the word is he caught her in _flagrante delicto_ with Gip Willens, if that's to be believed."

"You're kidding! She's old enough to be his mum... he's... what?... mid-forties. She was a year older than me when..." Steve left the sentence incomplete.

"When you were seeing her..." Ron finished for him.

"Yeah... when I was seeing her," Steve admitted reluctantly.

 **Beautiful, blonde Wendy Bendiger** —seductive, rich and spoiled rotten... with a killer sports car and a less than savory reputation—had come onto him in the summer of '72 and like a fool he'd fallen for it hook, line and sinker. He'd thought it was mutual attraction but she was just out for the thrill of a dalliance with a known 'bad boy.' He'd been hurt and confused when she'd unceremoniously tossed him like a used tissue. To say that relations were strained between himself and Dora during and after that period would be an understatement.

Eventually Wendy's profligate behavior'd caught up to her and she found herself not only ostracized by the upstanding citizens of the community but up the spout thanks to Lewis Hammond, the lowliest of Tockwith's lowlife. To everyone's surprise, Lewis'd offered to make an honest woman of her and they'd been making each other and their three children miserable for almost thirty years.

"Saw her a few months back at a garden centre," Ron offered. "Looked like she'd been rode hard and put up wet."

Steve shrugged. "Still... Gip... kind of an odd match..." He still associated Gip with the stubborn ten-year-old who'd almost killed a colicky horse through ignorance until Steve'd intervened.

 **Ron cast his metaphorical fly** onto the water. "Refresh my memory... did Wendy come before or after that gypsy girl... what was her name? Tiny...?"

An odd look came over Steve's face, as if he were having gas pains or had just bitten into something that'd gone off. "Before Tina," he gritted. "Her name was Tina."

"Sure was a looker, that one! I remember being green with envy on account of you had her _and_ Dora and I didn't have nobody!"

"That's a load, Stryker, and you know it! You always had two or three birds on the wire at any given time back in those days!"

"Hah! They was all after you... I was always second pick... the booby prize," Ron snorted. "Even Callie and Hazel tried it on with you, didn't they?"

"They were just little girls!" Steve protested. "They didn't _know_ what they wanted. They were kids."

"Callie, maybe... Hazel, not so much. That's one _always_ knew what she wanted... but she settled for me. Mind, I'm not complaining!"

"And for the record... I didn't _have_ Dora... not in the biblical sense, anyway... not in the way you're insinuating."

"But ya _had_ t'other one, didn't ya?" Ron asked slyly. "Cor! Everyone knew about it except maybe the men in her family... or you woulda been one dead _gadjo_ , mate!"

Steve's face paled. "Why're you bringing all this up now, Ron? What does it matter who did what forty years ago?"

"No reason. Jus' thinkin' about our lives and wives... mistakes we made, mistakes we _coulda_ made! Could still make if we ain't careful."

 **Steve abruptly pulled into a lay-by,** slamming on the brakes. The offended tailgater behind laid on the horn. When Steve turned to look directly at Ron, his face was gray and contorted in fury. "Who told you? Was it Jesse?" he demanded coldly.

Ron involuntarily shrank against the passenger-side door. " 'Ere, mate... told me what? What are you on about?! The only time I've talked with Jesse you was with us the whole time! What's this all about?"

"Someone told you about the baby and I want to know who it is. Even Dora doesn't know about that yet!"

"Baby?" Ron repeated stupidly. "What baby? I don't know nuffin 'bout no baby... you need to calm down..."

"Tina's baby... my child!" Steve shouted as comprehension began filtering through to Ron.

Ron reached out and gripped Steve's left wrist tightly, trying not to look scared. "Steve... chill out!"

Steve pulled his arm away and stared out through the windscreen, obscured by a coating of fine misty rain that'd just come up. He was shaking with such quick shallow breaths that Ron was afraid he was about to pass out and then what would he, Ron, do? He'd never had any first response training and didn't have the faintest idea what to do if someone had a medical emergency. He spoke in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "That's it... breathe slowly... nice and easy... it'll be all right..." Of course, he didn't know what 'it' might be... only that Steve was having a panic attack over it.

Steve buried his head against his forearms on the steering wheel and groaned.

 **Ron thought quickly.** "Forget about the boat. Let's go somewhere where we can talk. I know a little out-of-the way place where we won't be bothered." He reached over and removed the keys from the ignition. "I'll drive."

Ron had no difficulty getting Steve to exchange places. Nosing the Rover back into the traffic stream, he crossed the ring road interchange and headed toward Chapelfields, aiming for a shabby backstreet and a bar he used to frequent back in his bad-boy biker days.

The 'Skull & Dagger' had existed since time eternal (actually, just since the end of the war) and Ron'd no reason to expect it wouldn't be located right where he'd left it some twenty or thirty years ago. Steve'd lapsed into a fugue state and said not a word but stared blindly out the passenger side window. The rain'd intensified, making the derelict district appear even more desperate. Good, Ron thought, which made it even less likely they would run into anyone they knew. It took a few blocks' worth of cruising back and forth before he finally identified the building, which'd undergone considerable cosmetic alterations since the last time he'd seen it.

The crumbling cinderblock, tin-roofed establishment used to be painted dead black with a crudely drawn skull with a dagger sticking out of it and its unskillfully lettered name looming large on the wall facing the parking area. The building was now a garish purple and green with a glaring neon sign over the door flashing 'Leather & Heather'. The welcoming mural portrayed an art deco Harley Davidson with sprays of heather lashed to its handlebars. A dozen or so motorbikes of varying makes and models were parked outside.

 **Had Ron not been so preoccupied** with manhandling Steve from the vehicle and propelling him across the pavement out of the wet, he might have entertained doubts about the suitability of the L &H for a tête-à-tête between two hetero males. But as it was, he was intent on getting them inside the door and on the outside of a couple of pints... or shots, this being the sort of venue which also purveyed hard liquors.

He paid no attention to the decor nor the clientele _in situ_ but made straight for the vacant table nearest the open fireplace which thankfully was still there... and in operation. Leaving Steve to resume his blank staring, this time into the fire, Ron ambled up to the bar and ordered two pints and two snifters of brandy, telling the barman, "I'll take the bottle as well, my good man." The barkeeper snickered but took the money and handed over the bottle.

Ron urged Steve to down one healthy tot of brandy then another, fighting off his impatience as his mate slowly returned to the land of the living. At last Steve was able to focus on him and their surroundings.

"Now then," Ron said firmly. "I want to know what's going on with you. From the beginning. Take your time."

 **The telling of it did take some time** and Ron was stupefied, never in his wildest imaginings having anticipated this particular situation. He'd always suspicioned that Steve was smarter than he was... but here was solid evidence that intelligence didn't always trump practical know-how. In his salad days, Ron'd been as wild and woolly as the next young rake but he'd never, ever embarked on an evening's adventure without a pocketful of prophylactics.

"So you see... I have to tell her... I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I have to. I don't suppose you have any suggestions?"

"I don't, no," Ron agreed. "Frankly, I really did believe you was havin' an affair and was hoping you'd trust me enough after all this time to tell me about it... maybe even ask my advice. But this... this is something above and beyond _my_ pay grade, old sod." He nodded gravely. "At least, if it was just a bit of strange on the side you could break things off an' that would be the end of it—if it didn't come to Dora's attention. But a full-grown son springing up out of nowhere... no way you can disguise that or pretend it didn't happen."

"That's what Jesse said, too." Steve rubbed his jaw in despair. "And that's not the only problem..." He went on to describe the flashbacks, the snippets of memories that popped in and out of his head too quickly to get a handle on... and how he was becoming obsessed with that missing week back in September 1974.

"It's driving me crazy... the not knowing. And why haven't we ever talked about it... ever?"

"I don't know. For some reason, I've just never thought about it, either... an' for the record, I'm having the same problems... the flashbacks, I mean..."

 **Hours passed as the two compared notes** and pondered the meaning of it all. The bottle of brandy'd long been drained and the pints followed by more of the same... yet both were stone cold sober. Earlier the other patrons'd been congregating at the other end of the room near the billiard tables and pinball machines; no one'd been sitting at the nearby tables and Ron and Steve'd carried on their discussion unmolested. But as the afternoon wore on, new arrivals began filling up the tables. The noise level went up appreciably and they realized they could no longer discourse privately.

They were just getting ready to leave when a tall blonde man swaggered up to them with a nasty grin pasted on his unfortunately familiar face. A younger, slimly-built man that Steve and Ron both recognized as one of the student grooms from Butler Hall loitered close behind.

"Well, well, well... look who we've got here, Brucie!... Ratface and the Borstal Boy," he sneered. "What's a pair of toffee-noses like you doing in a dump like this?"

Only then, when Steve looked up at Lewis Hammond's smirking visage and beyond, did the full import of their immediate environs sink in. The clientele were mainly of two varieties... hulky and hairy, or sleek and comely. All male and almost all in pairs.

Ron was the first to recover. "Lovely to see you, too, Lewis. Sorry we can't stay and chat. Come on, Steve!" He grabbed Steve by the arm and half-dragged, half-pushed him past the obviously overserved Lewis and made for the door.

 **As the doors slammed shut on the Rover,** Steve threw his hands up. "Great. Just great. This is all I need, on top of everything else... Lewis going around spreading the word... Stryker and Ross caught trysting in a gay biker bar..."

"Don't worry about it," Ron laughed, jamming the key in the ignition after refusing to let Steve drive his own vehicle home, "You're not my type..." He suddenly froze, jerking his head around toward Steve with eyes as big as dinner plates. From the look of horror on the other's face, he knew without asking that his friend'd been simultaneously smitten with a shared recollection from long ago... a rainy afternoon in the tack room in the old barn at Follyfoot, polishing saddles by lantern light... the two of them talking about... what? Girls? The vision hung between them, clear as a snapshot.

" **We was talking about you an' me** settlin' down, gettin' married..." Ron said very slowly.

"And I said 'Sorry, mate... you're not my type.' " Steve responded softly.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as rain pattered on the roof.

"There was another bloke... wasn't there? But who..."

Steve shook his head. "You're right... there was... but I can't remember..."

Ron shook himself as if he'd got a sudden chill and started up the engine. "We'd better get for home or we'll miss dinner. We'll barely have time to change as it is."

"Change? Are we going out? Dora didn't say."

"Hazel was supposed to ask if you two wanted to join us at Quantro's. I guess she changed her mind. Or Dora might've just forgotten. She's been doing that quite a bit lately, Hazel says."

 **The topic of Steve's illegitimate son** had been put aside for the time being, along with the explanation that would necessarily have to be forthcoming soonest. After a few minutes Steve actually chuckled. "Trust you to pick the one place we wouldn't ever have wanted to be caught dead in!"

"If I hadn't been that worried about the state of your health I would've noticed, wouldn't I?" Ron snapped. "It's always been a place for... you know... regular guys. It just didn't occur to me..." They both laughed.

"Anyway, no harm done," Ron said.

Steve was shaking his head. "Lewis the Louse... of all people! I'd never have guessed that in a million years! But I can see where anyone married to a harridan like Wendy could be tempted over to the dark side!"

"Could just be an innocent mistake... like us being there..." Ron countered.

"Oh no," Steve affirmed, "That kid he was with, Bruce? He's definitely what Michael refers to as 'family'."

"Meaning what?" Ron asked.

"Meaning he bats for the other team..." Steve said.

"Oh. Well, like I said. We don't need to worry about Hammond running his mouth. He's not in any position to say anything, is he? As the polis say, anything he says can be used against him."

Steve admitted that Ron had a valid point there as they rolled westward in the gathering darkness.

 **Just then, their cells came to life** with text alerts, startling them. They'd both left their phones in the vehicle. Steve checked his first and swore. "Something's happened to Dora. Step on it!"

"Here... check mine." Ron tossed his phone over to Steve; it was still raining and he wanted both hands on the wheel.

"Same message... from Jesse. He must have broadcast it. Can't you go any faster?"

"Not if you want to get home alive."

 **A mild flashback hit Ron...** not enough to distract him but it lingered there like the retinal glow from a flashbulb going off in one's face... another time, another year... Steve driving like a maniac toward Follyfoot, endangering life and limb, Ron scared spitless... all on account of something he, Ron, had said. But what was it...?

Other than a short, terse conversation between Steve and his son over the phone, the rest of the trip home was made in grim silence. Though dying to know what was going on, Ron concentrated on driving instead and Steve offered no explanation.

What they didn't know, because of course they couldn't have... was that shortly after they'd exited and Lewis'd lurched off to the little boys' room, Bruce'd whipped out his cell and conveyed this juicy tidbit of intel via text to his _other_ boyfriend Adam (the one Lewis didn't know about), a fellow groom at Butler Hall, who texted it to _his_ other boyfriend Salvatore (the one Bruce didn't know about), a waiter in the Virgin's main dining room, who spilled it to Jean-Luc, the assistant head desk clerk with whom he shared an apartment, who told Jean-Paul (the reception desk manager who was so far back in the closet he was pooting mothballs), who immediately transmitted the info to his second cousin once removed Trinidad Roussel who happened to be incountry with his partner Michael Geoffrey Ross on a visit to the latter's family home.

 **Thusly—faster than a speeding bullet,** faster than bongos in the Congo, faster than a prostitute's knickers hitting the floor—did the news about Steve Ross and Ron Stryker reach Hollin Hall before the subjects themselves'd even pulled into the driveway.

 **STRATEGY AND THE SCRYING POOL**

 _ **Meanwhile, back in the Obama Suite...**_ The strategy planning session'd been going on for hours with not much progress being made. First, Hazel had to be brought up to speed. Dorothy'd barely begun to the outline the situation by telephone when Jason and Sarah'd deposited the children. Hazel'd called her back to hear the rest of it and even then kept having to interrupt Dorothy to shout at the children or give instructions to their cousin/nannies. Annie was sulking and being as uncooperative as possible. Ron'd hung around long enough to kiss and hug his granddaughters—even the one who didn't want a kiss or a hug—and then'd done a runner to escape the bedlam. Mrs. Sullivan, who was usually off on Mondays, had come in for the express purpose of preparing lunch and a dinner which could be easily warmed up later. Then she, too, had speedily departed. The older girls had the younger ones more or less under control and the day's plans sorted out by the time Hazel was dressed and ready to leave the house. During the time it took her to drive to Harrogate, she'd come up with several ideas... a few of which'd already been thought of by Elayne, Sally and Dorothy.

 _ **Hazel had no difficulty remembering**_ Solánge/Sally and giggled. "I remember that first day you and your sisters came around... knocked those boys silly!"

Sally demurred. "My older daughters, actually."

"No kidding?! I sure hope I look as good as you do when I get to be your age... oh wait... I _am_ your age... almost... ha ha!"

And then Hazel had to be apprised of Steve's problem, which was not, strictly speaking, _their_ problem but had a direct bearing on events nonetheless.

"Oh my... oh dear! What a tangled web! Poor, poor Dora!" Hazel intoned.

"What about poor, poor Steve?" Dorothy interjected indignantly. "Doesn't he deserve some consideration as well?" As much as she loved Dora, she was very, _very_ fond of Steve.

"Why waste sympathy on him?" Hazel sneered. "He was certainly old enough to know better and should have planned ahead... why, even Ron'd better sense back when we used to... but never mind about that! We need to throw all our support behind Dora... she'll need all she can get with this double whammy about to be dropped on her!"

"You're absolutely right, dear," Sally soothed, "but we do need to keep abreast of which way Steve jumps and factor that in."

 _ **The three older witches**_ filled Hazel in on yesterday's events.

"So far, he appears to be evading the issue," Elayne said.

"Not necessarily," Hazel said. "He and Ron are off on a road trip today. Ron was planning to pick his brains... oh... not about _this_ , because he doesn't know about this... or about Steve's love child, because he doesn't know about _that_ , either. He believes Steve's having an affair and needs to get it off his chest, so there's an excellent possibility Steve might open up."

"Ron's in for a surprise, then," Sally observed.

"And just so you know," Hazel put in, "Ron's been having flashbacks, too, only he just got around to telling me last night."

 _ **They took a break in mid-afternoon**_ to order up a late luncheon from room service. The command table was temporarily cleared. Two trolleys and two servers arrived, Polina (from the day before) and Adrick (from Aldersgate, who'd aspirations of replacing Con/Connie's current boyfriend in the near future and was eager to score points with information). The two took their time placing luncheon items on the table, fussing and puttering unnecessarily and showing no inclination to remove themselves quickly, all the while looking around the room curiously while trying not to look directly at the occupants for too lengthy periods of time, until eventually Elayne was forced to shoo them out. When the repast was done with, all was loaded back onto the trolleys which were then rolled out into the corridor.

"Don't want them busybodies back in here, do we?" This from Elayne. "Now, before we get back to business, let's just have us a quick peek at what's been going on, shall we?"

 _ **Three got down on their knees**_ and Elayne plopped on her stool next to the scrying pool and peered into it. She waved her wand—a lovely antique birch job with a soft, satiny finish to it and a brass finial—and murmured an incantation in some arcane language Hazel didn't recognize, being only partially trained. The water began to swirl of its own accord and turned murky black before clearing again.

Hazel could make out, indistinctly, an image depicting Steve, Dora, Jesse and Dorothy breakfasting together. "Doesn't this thing have audio?" she complained.

"Sorry honey, just video. Too bad none of us ever thought about learning to lip read."

"I've already seen this part," Dottie sniffed. "Not interesting. Can we move it along?"

"How's about I put it on slide show. You'll have to pay attention, though."

"Go for it," Dottie said.

They stared intently as image after image swirled by: Jesse and Dora riding, Dora and Steve riding, then talking. Steve, Dora and Jesse walking back to the house. Lunch. Steve leaving. Dora and Jesse walking to the farm and talking to Blair Statham. Dora fainting... There was a collective intake of breath as all four realized something awful'd happened and there they were with all four of their cells turned off! Elayne stopped the slide show as they each scrambled for their phones and turned them back on.

"I've got 27 calls and one text message from Jesse," Dottie announced.

"And I've got a whole bunch of calls and one text, too," Hazel said.

"Well I ain't got none a'tall!" Elayne whined, pouting.

"That's because he doesn't know you're here, dear," Sally consoled.

"Oh yeah... that's right."

"If he'd known, I'm sure you would've received just as many calls as they did."

Dorothy read out the text message, identical to Hazel's: " _'Mum ill. Call or come home NOW.'_ He must have sent out a blanket text. I'd better call back."

"No, wait," Sally cautioned. "This could have happened hours ago. Perhaps we should have another look to confirm what's happening at this very moment?"

 _ **They returned to the pool**_ and Elayne started it back up: Jesse carrying Dora out to the cart, driving to the house, Jesse taking Dora up the staircase, putting her to bed. Jesse leaving and returning with a young woman carrying a tray. Jesse going back downstairs without entering the room. The young woman pouring tea for Dora then scooting a chair up to the bed. Then the image froze.

"What? What happened?" Hazel demanded.

"That's it, honey. That's what's happening right this minute, realtime," Elayne explained. "That's the trouble with these portable models; they don't got enough memory to go back more than a day, an' they don't got no forward neither."

"I need to get home right away... Hazel, can I hitch a ride with you?" Dottie fretted.

"Sure... but wait... we need an alibi... um... we came here to get our hair done and just happened to run into each other... then we went shopping..."

"But we didn't..."

"Doesn't matter. Men never notice anyway and won't know the difference."

"Works for me," Dottie answered.

"Better yet," Elayne commanded. "You decided to take in a movie while in town and had your cells turned off."

They all agreed that that was an excellent excuse for being out of touch.

"Before you tear outta here we'd better check on Steve and Ron an' the kids. Won't take but a minute."

Hazel and Dottie reluctantly put down their pocketbooks and returned to the pool. There weren't that many images to go through—all they were doing was driving, in most cases exceeding the speed limit, vectoring in toward home. The last image froze.

"Okay girls," Elayne finally said. "You go on, but when you get there don't let on that you know anything. Me and Sally'll keep working on a plan. Oh... and leave your cells off. It'll look suspicious if both a y'all call in right now. Keep us posted though."

"Will do," Hazel promised, and ushered a very worried Dottie out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16:**_ **ANOTHER STONE IN THE SOUP**

 **After Jesse'd left the room,** Dora laid in bed staring up at the ceiling and focusing on a tiny spider busily redecorating the chandelier overhead. Considering the force and impact of the flashback, so powerful as to cause her to faint, she felt amazingly calm. Her mind was quite clear. Nothing hurt anywhere. She accepted that this was a temporary state—that all her existing anxieties were merely on hiatus and not assuaged. As long as she lay perfectly still, however, she was free to examine this new development without fear... what'd occurred hadn't been a flashback at all but a genuine memory triggered by Mr. Statham's reference to witches.

 _Of course... Elayne and Dorothy are witches._ Hadn't she known that all along? Had just forgotten, that was all. She experimented with this newly recovered memory by shutting it out, thinking of something else, then summoning it back up. Like a page in a book, there it was, awaiting inspection for as many times as she liked.

The Friday before her twenty-first birthday party; she and Hazel and Elayne having a fun 'salon' day at Butler Hall; Elayne's revelations and recommendations as to the best way to snare Steve. _Of course that's why he proposed—it was witchcraft... not love after all,_ Dora thought idly. _The last four decades have been a sham. Well then, what now? Steve's in crisis and I will shortly be having a nervous breakdown. Our world-—our life, our family—will implode like a dying star and disappear into a black hole._

 **Hearing footsteps in the corridor** approaching her bedroom door, Dora closed her eyes and feigned sleep, thinking it was Jesse returning and not feeling like talking to him right now. But it wasn't her son who eased the door open and tiptoed across the room to set something down on the bureau. Whoever it was didn't leave the room. _Go away, please... just... go. I said that to him once, didn't I? But he didn't. Why didn't he? What if he had?_

Dora resumed examination of the memory, trying to dig deeper... into whatever may have occurred that week. Nope, those newsreels were unavailable as yet. _Don't be greedy, girl,_ she admonished herself, _the rest will come... and then you'll have the complete picture._

Her ruminations were cut off by a soft voice close by.

"Cook sent up tea, Missus Ross. Shall I pour before it goes cold?"

Dora cracked one eye open to spy the maid called Violet standing by expectantly.

"Yes... please! With milk and two sugars."

Dora sat up and stuffed pillows behind her back, leaning against the headboard.

"So, they've detailed you to mind me, have they? Make sure I don't escape?"

"I believe so, Missus Ross."

 **Dora gratefully accepted the steaming cup.** "Would you mind closing the drapes, dear?" It was only five-thirty but already dark outside with a heavy rainstorm in progress. Dora hoped the old men'd gotten all the animals under shelter and visitors safely out of the park without getting drenched themselves.

"Anyone else home besides you and me and my son?"

"Just Missus Barton in the kitchen."

Dora sighed. "I feel I should be up doing something useful. This is so boring."

"Young Mr. Ross will be very put out with me if you get out of bed. I'm to stay until the doctor arrives, he said."

"Well... why don't you pull your chair over here so we can talk, Violet. You've been here two weeks already and I do apologize for not having taken the time to get to know you better. Would you tell me a little about yourself? I understand you're from Wales?"

Violet fetched a small straightback chair and placed it next to the bed. Sitting down with her hands folded in her lap, she debated whether to maintain the fiction of Violet Vale, unassuming housemaid... or whether to unmask Violca Ventura, aspiring journalist-historian on a mission. The former meant she would be compelled to continue her research undercover, so to speak. The latter would afford immediate access to the answers she needed to complete her quest... or might result in her immediate dismissal.

 **Ethnically, Violet (her Anglicized name)** was a descendant on her mother's side of Iberian Kalé gitanos—Spanish gypsies who'd had the foresight to flee their native Granada Province shortly before World War II erupted. Her great-great-grandparents had emigrated to America, ultimately coming to rest in a tiny close-ordered mountain community just northeast of the California coastal city of Santa Cruz.

In the ensuing seventy-five years adherence to traditional values and cultural strictures had of necessity yielded to modifications imposed by the new environment... and those governing marriage had been the single most influential factor: Alliances between a gitano and a _gadje_ , a non-gypsy—once unthinkable—became the norm, simply because the gene pool had become too limited to allow exclusivity. The caravanning way of life was the next to go because _gadje_ spouses were by inclination settlers, not travellers. Becoming increasingly obsolete in post-war America, traditional Roma occupations gave way to steady employment in agriculture, industry, trade and manufacturing. Families lived in modern brick-and-mortar homes in middle-class suburbia. Children attended school regularly, for the most part unconcerned with their mixed heritage, surrounded as they were by others of diverse lineage—Asian, Native American, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, what have you.

Violca was one of those multifacial, multicultural children, the oldest of three (four, actually... but that was a whole other story). Her father was a _gadje_. Both parents were educators in the University of California System at the Santa Cruz campus. Violca herself was a UCS undergrad majoring in journalism with a minor in history. She'd undertaken a sabbatical at the beginning of the year with the intent of tracing her family's roots in Europe, beginning with known relatives yet living in Spain. However, it was now November and her UK visa'd expired months ago despite her efforts to extend it. Her parents were demanding she come home and threatening to cut off her allowance if she didn't do so soon... but she was so close... so very close... to a successful conclusion to her research...

All this and more rushed through her mind as she regarded the woman in the bed, sensing the turmoil hidden beneath the tranquil exterior. This woman was good-hearted and deserved the truth. Dora was watching her expectantly. Violca made her decision, for better or worse...

" **My real name is Violca..."** She pronounced it for Dora's edification: _vee•ol•cha_ , dropping her convincingly Welsh accent for her native Californian. "It means 'violet.' I'm an American gypsy and at present also an illegal alien. I had a visa, but it's expired."

After a moment's consideration, Dora admitted, "That wasn't quite what I expected," adding after a few seconds, "I never knew there were gypsies in the States."

"Oh... we're everywhere... like rats and fleas, some folks would say. Naturally, if you wish to dismiss me now, I would understand."

Dora spoke quietly, but her eyes were smiling. The girl wouldn't be the first shady character with a dubious background who'd ever entered her employ.

"I learned a long time ago, Violet, to take people on their own merit and judge them by character, not by appearance or where they come from or who their people are. Besides, I haven't noticed any babies or horses gone missing... and the heirloom silver seems to be intact!"

"Heirlooms are too hard to pawn, horses too big to hide... and as for babies... ugh!"

"Sooooo... Violca-the-Undocumented... what shall I with you? If I turn you in, you'll go to jail and be deported. If I don't, then I'm aiding and abetting a fugitive!"

"Please, Missus Ross... If you allow me to explain why I'm here, I believe you will find it of personal interest, if not importance."

"I suppose you must have a good reason for lingering past..." As Dora spoke, a fully-formed memory stole in on cat's-paws... another place, another time, another person who shouldn't have been there but was. _Bernard._ She saw his face as clearly as if it were he rather than the diminutive gypsy girl sitting in front of her. Her voice caught in her throat...

Violca leaned forward in concern, putting a hand on one of Dora's. "Are you all right, Missus Ross?"

Dora shook her head. "Fine... I'm fine... you just reminded me of someone I met a long time ago... someone who told me... showed me something that changed my life. Are you about to do that, Violet? Tell me something that changes everything?"

Violet frowned. "Well... I don't know about _that_ , but..."

"Then explain, please!"

"It's an involved story... but the upshot is, I have reason to believe Mr. Ross is related to my people."

"Mr. Ross... as in my husband, Steven Ross?"

Violca nodded affirmatively and Dora grinned. "This is going to be good... I can feel it. And your audience is not only captive but captivated! Let's hear it... and don't leave out a morsel!"

" **This story begins with my gran bisabuela** —my great-great-grandmother, Alícia, who was a great beauty in her youth, a celebrated singer and dancer in the flamenco tradition. Her dance troupe toured Europe before the outbreak of the second world war prevented them from returning to the continent and they were forced to emigrate to the United States. She was married to her accompanist, Mateo Ventura, who was two years younger than herself. He was a very good-looking man, my great-great-grandfather—I've seen old photographs—but he'd a reputation as a hard drinker and fierce womanizer. These are established facts, which have been handed down in our family history. What was not generally known, because it was never discussed in front of the children, was the rumor of a scandal which occurred when they were touring the British Isles in the early 1930s.

"Alícia was born in 1913 and is one hundred and one years old, but still possesses a clear mind and excellent hearing. She speaks only Caló now—that's our version of the Romani gypsy language—although she had a smattering of other tongues at one time. She was twenty-four in 1936 when she emigrated with her husband and children, along with a dozen relatives and _their_ spouses and children who were all part of the troupe. Their timing couldn't have been worse, with all the country in the grip of the Great Depression... but they were hardy and used to living off the land. In a year's time they fetched up in California and decided to put down roots, having found that gyppos are no more welcome there than they are here or any other place. They quickly learned the value of adaptation and protective coloration. That plus the considerable amount of outbreeding since then has nudged us, as a people, into a new minority category—Hispanic-American—and we're okay with that."

"So your great-great-grandmother is still alive?" Dora marveled.

"Very much so. She's outlived all her children and lives with my mom's parents. When I was a baby Grandpa Ventura bought a camper trailer and installed it in the back four acres of their property, then built a shell around it and painted it so that it looks like an authentic vardo—a caravan—with big wooden wheels and everything. It was supposed to be sort of a playhouse or clubhouse for us grandkids, you know? But Alícia took it over and refused to move back into the house, so that's where she lives. Whenever the weather's nice she sits out in front of it in a lawn chair under a big chestnut tree and holds court—there's still a handful of original immigrés left. They come over every day, the ones who can still get around, to sit and gossip and complain and smoke their pipes and put the stinkeye on anyone who displeases them. Grandpa even fenced in the area and keeps a pair of old vanners as pets. I don't know where he finds them but he's always been able to get a replacement when needed. Alicia's always threatening to hitch them up and run away."

"She couldn't, though, could she?"

"No. It's not a real vardo and those horses are so old they can barely stand up. Besides, there's no harness... but I'm getting away from my story...

" **I always wanted to be a writer when I grew up.** When I was still quite young I started keeping a journal of the stories Alícia and her cronies told, but it wasn't until I was in high school and writing a term paper on the migrational patterns of our people that she decided I was old enough to hear the story of the scandal...

"They were in northern England when their bus broke down in a mining village in Yorkshire and they'd to wait for parts to be obtained from another bigger town. This was in 1932. During the week they were stranded there, Mateo—Matt in English—had a dalliance with a local girl who claimed she was raped. He was arrested, tried and convicted and served one year of a three-year sentence.

"Alícia loved her husband very much and forgave him this trespass. She left the troupe and took up a position as a housemaid in another village near the prison until he was released and they could rejoin their compatriots. During that time, she heard that the girl, who turned up pregnant, had been quickly married off to a much older widower before giving birth to a boy. The widower was prepared to overlook her shame because it would have been difficult otherwise to get a new wife willing to take on his four small children. He even formally adopted her child.

"You must understand that by the double standards of that time, it was considered disgraceful but not necessarily dishonorable for a gypsy man to father a child out of wedlock on a white woman. If it'd been the other way around—if a white man'd gotten a gypsy girl pregnant—she would have been abjured by her clan. My great-great-grandparents went on to produce eleven children and family integrity was preserved. But Alícia never forgot the existence of that first child—the one that _should_ have been hers. She's always wondered what became of him... after all, he was of our blood. In fact, she's developed a bit of an obsession over it. When I told her I where I was going and why, she made this one request of me: that I go to England and find out what happened to that little boy. And that's why I'm here."

At that point, Violet paused, awaiting the inevitable question.

" **I don't suppose..." Dora began hesitantly,** "your esteemed great-great-grandmother recalls the name of the village where this incident took place... or the names of the people involved?"

"Of course she does. She has an eidetic memory. The village was Bairdston. The girl's name was Louise Miller, the widower was called Paul Ross and the baby was christened James Ross."

"Oh... that's not where Steve's from..." Dora's face fell.

"Tell me about it! Do you how many James Rosses there are in the United Kingdom? Hundreds! It took weeks just to track this one down after he moved to another town and married a Katherine Spurling. Then they moved several times after that."

"James and Kathy were Steve's parents!" Dora exclaimed.

"So I learned later... but I didn't know that then. This information didn't come easily... or quickly. Believe me, I had to wade through a ton of parish records and civil registers to get it. I've spent about a million hours going through the microfiche archives of newspapers and interviewing old people. I kept running into stone walls and dead ends because, you know, most so-called 'gentlefolk' don't want anything to do with gypsies, so I had to forge a new identity for myself... literally. Fake papers aren't hard to get if you know where to look."

"You mean... you used forged documents to get on with the temp agency?" Dora was appalled. "What if you get caught?"

The girl grinned. "Then that would be my hard luck, wouldn't it? Haven't had any trouble so far. But I had to do it. For me to stay here I had to find jobs, and to get jobs I needed a work permit which, obviously, I couldn't get in my present circumstance. Back to my story, Jimmy and Kathy Ross had a son, Steven Paul Ross. After Jimmy was killed in the mining accident, Kathy and the boy disappeared... and the trail went cold again..."

" **Steve's mother left him** at an orphanage and took off."

"Again, something I didn't find out until later. I was about to pack it in when I was steered to this old lady living in a nursing home in Killinghall who had a friend named Milly..."

Dora's mouth fell open. "That's not possible... surely Steve's Aunt Milly is dead by now? She disappeared in the early seventies and we never knew what happened to her!"

"She died quite a while back, but she and this other old lady, Miss Agatha, were roomies for, like, twenty years. Miss Agatha's mostly senile but she had enough lucid moments that I was able to interview her. She remembered that Milly had a nephew she was real fond of who lived on a horse farm in Yorkshire near the Harewood estate. That narrowed down my search field considerably."

"So your being here... in Yorkshire, and in my home... isn't a coincidence?"

"No, m'am," Violca admitted. "It was sheer good luck that this job opened up while I was trying to figure out how to approach you."

When Dora made no comment, Violet said, "You look as if you'd never heard any of this before."

"I haven't. This is all news to me... as I'm quite sure it will be to my husband. We've never known anything about his family. But if what you say is true... well, that certainly explains a... oh my goodness!" Dora started laughing then and kept on laughing until her eyes started to run and Violet was becoming alarmed, snatching up a handful of tissues and offering them. After a considerable amount of eye mopping and nose blowing, Dora found her voice again.

" **Sorry... I'm not being hysterical...** just remembering something else from long ago." She went on to relate an incident that'd occurred several years before she and Steve'd married: "There were these horrible old men on a nearby farm... brothers... who mistreated a horse belonging to a young gypsy lad... the poor boy was imprisoned for a while for threatening them... Steve intervened to get the boy's horse back for him and was accidently locked in their barn, where he found another horse in a bad way. He escaped by pretending to be a gypsy himself and promising to put the evil eye on them if they didn't let him go, along with the horse that needed rescuing! If only we'd known the truth at the time!"

"He may not be too pleased when he hears my story," Violet cautioned.

"What he _will_ want is verification," Dora retorted. "Whomever you talked with, for instance."

"I have notes," Violet sighed, "lots and lots of notes, photocopies of records, transcripts of conversations and so on... Too bad he couldn't go and see Miss Agatha... she died shortly after I talked with her, I heard.

Dora calmed down and became serious. "What do you intend to do with all this information, aside from setting your granny Alicia's mind at ease, that is?"

"At first I was planning to incorporate it in my future masters thesis on cross-cultural interfaces and their influence on family histories using my own family as an example... sort of a _Roots_ meets _Six Degrees of Separation_ kind of thing. But now I've got so much material I'm thinking of publishing an anthology of gypsy lore. I'm hoping I can interview Mr. Ross, if he's willing, about anything at all he can remember about his father. That way I could wrap things up... go home and face the music and take the good news to Alícia... but..."

"But what?"

"I've invested all this effort into following my _maternal_ lines of descent, right? But maybe there's more to this story than meets the eye so far... something very, very strange has come up... since your son arrived, actually..."

"Jesse certainly _can_ be strange at times!"

"Does that have internet access?" Violet was pointing at Dora's smartphone on the nightstand. "I'd like to show you something, if I may?"

"Of course..."

 **Violet switched on the device** and found a browser, thumbing in a particular site and bringing up a welcome screen before handing the smartphone over to Dora, who had to put on her reading glasses to examine the tiny image and its caption.

"Well... it's Jesse... but who's Robert Cameron... I don't know anyone by that name."

"It's not your son... and Robert Cameron's my father."

"But...?"

"I know... I was shocked, too..."

"I'm sure there must be a reasonable explanation for this..."

"Me, too... and I intend to get it. Except now's not a good time to get in touch with my dad... he'll haul me home before I can figure this out..."

Just then there came a knock at the door.

"Maybe we should keep this conversation to ourselves, for the time being," Dora whispered. "In the meantime, can you keep on pretending you're a maid? We'll talk again later..."

"Okay," Violet shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."

 **WITCH CHICK FLICKS**

 _ **Meanwhile, back at the hotel...**_ Elayne and Sally set about tidying up the work table, removing questionable items from view.

"What about the pool? Should we empty it or leave it where it is?" Sally asked.

"Leave it. Ain't nobody's business but ours. But if anyone asks, it's an idea we're pitchin' to management... an authentic waterhole for the Obama suite. They could put a stuffed giraffe or somethin' around it."

"As if it needed more tacky! So, what do we do with the rest of the evening?"

"Appears there ain't much else we can do 'til things settle down over to the Rosses'. How about we mosey down to the spa for a couple a hours an' then have supper sent up? Then just relax and watch us a movie?" Elayne flipped through the printed brochure touting all the amenities. "Looka here... they got the dish network an' over four hunnert channels. Wonder if they got the Supernatural Channel... oh yeah... there it is! I'm in the mood for a good witch flick!"

As the elevator descended they argued over which movie they were going to watch.

" **How about 'Witches of Eastwick?' ''** Sally suggested.

Elayne dismissed it. "Romantic comedy? Nah."

"Practical Magic, then."

"Chick flick."

"Well, there's historical fiction... 'The Mists of Avalon'."

"Draggy."

"The Crucible?"

"Depressing."

"The Craft?"

"Buncha amateur teenyboppers!"

"The Coven?"

"Too scary."

"The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?"

"That's for little kids."

"The Blair Witch Project?"

"Stupid."

"The Wizard of Oz?"

"Done seen it about elebenty billion times."

"Bell ,Book and Candle?"

"Too sad... she loses her powers."

"Hocus Pocus?"

"Too silly."

"Elvira, Mistress of the Dark?"

"Too campy."

"About the only thing left is 'Harry Potter'."

"Which one?"

"Any one. They're all good."

Pushing open the doors to the spa, they started arguing over which one of _those_ was the best.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter 17:**_ **WHEN YOU'RE UP TO YOUR ARMPITS IN ALLIGATORS**

 **Anxiously pacing the covered entry** outside the east corridor while awaiting the doctor's arrival, Jesse received the first callback in response to his desperate text. It was his distraught father. He tried to explain—when he was able to get a word in edgewise—that Mum'd fainted, that she was now resting upstairs, that the doctor was coming. Offering no excuse for why he hadn't answered his cell, Steve said he and Ron were on their way.

Next was Sarah. She and Jason'd been in an Irish pub with karaoke and a live band so loud they hadn't heard their respective cells go off. It was only when Sarah went to the loo and thought to check messages that she found his. They were on their way.

Michael and Trini'd been at a pool party all afternoon, playing water volleyball, so they hadn't heard their phones, either... but they were on their way.

Julia and Ian'd been in a remote valley out of range of any transmission tower so their phones hadn't rung at all... but they were on their way.

The last person to call in was Blair Statham: Con/Connie'd come through with a sitrep gleaned from his network of spies. The room service team reported four ladies up in the Obama Suite, evidently holding either a seance or a prayer meeting. They'd code-named them LeMans (Lady Elayne, official signatory for the suite, in green); Submarine (Italian royal in yellow); Panther (old crone in pink); and Stealth (youngest woman in black). LeMans and Submarine'd registered as guests the prior day. Panther'd arrived at mid-morning (causing a ruckus at the front desk) and Stealth an hour later (somehow having got in unseen). They'd been closeted up there all day with instructions not to be disturbed for any reason other than room service. A special work table'd been provided. Unusual accoutrements'd been noted: a variety of drumsticks (an all girl band?) and a small inflatable plastic pool filled with water (foot-washing?). Panther and Stealth'd just left, obviously in a hurry. LeMans and Submarine were still up there.

 **Jesse thanked Mr. Statham and rang off,** entirely mystified as to what could possibly be going on over in Harrogate. He recalled Statham's reference earlier to witches but immediately forgot about it as Doctor Sheffield's battered Volvo rolled up in the car park and the rain-hooded medico (a fervent women's libber toting a pink rather than black bag) dashed up the steps to the protection of the portico.

No sooner had they exchanged greetings, with Jesse giving a precise summary of Dora's trouble, when two more vehicles tore up the driveway, disgorging Michael/Trini and Sarah/Jason, respectively. Everyone was talking at once, demanding details and updates.

Knowing the way, Dr. Sheffield headed for the staircase then, realizing she'd an entourage, turned and told them all to wait downstairs until further notice. As they milled about in the corridor, a third car pulled up and Hazel and Dottie scurried through the rain to join them.

"What's going on?" Hazel inquired innocently.

"Where have you been, DoDo?!" Jesse stormed. "Why did you go off without telling anyone? Are we going to have to put a tracking device on you? Mum was so worried she had a turn and fainted!"

Offended, Dottie drew herself up to her maximum height, which put her at eye-level with Jesse's shirt pocket. "Since when do I need a signed pass to come and go as I please? Let me remind you, young man, who's the elder around here!"

"Okay, okay... but Mum's ill and she needed you!"

Dottie feigned innocence. "What's wrong with her, then? She's not pregnant, is she?"

Sarah rolled her eyes at Hazel. The other three men snickered but Jesse didn't find it funny at all. "Where the hell were you, anyway?"

"It's my fault... I took her shopping," Hazel lied.

"And then we went to the cinema," Dottie lied.

"We had our cells turned off..." Hazel added.

 **Jesse barely registered the fact** that DoDo and Aunt Hazel'd just blatantly lied to him when his phone went off again. It took a few moments to sort out that it was Cousin Evan's wife Arlene wanting to know if her mother-in-law was still with Dora as her daughters were over at Hazel's house sitting for Sarah's kids and surely Hazel should have been home by now as she knew tomorrow was a school day and Tiffany and Brittany needed to be home at least by dinnertime...

Jesse interrupted her. "Hang on... she's right here." He thrust the phone at Hazel who was making shushing noises and mouthing 'no, no!' but took the phone anyway. After assuring her daughter-in-law she would return home immediately, she handed the phone back.

"Thanks a lot! Now I have to leave. Promise you'll call, soon as you know something?"

Jesse promised he would and she went back out the door. No sooner had the Lexus LS430 disappeared into the darkness when Julia and Ian's Nissan® Navara Tekna Nav™ pickup truck rumbled in at a sedate pace, towing their new Cheval Liberte® 'Gold Magnum'™ horse float with two restless transportees still in it. Ever-practical Jules hopped out of the cab, leaving Ian with the motor running. After a two-minute conference with her brother and being assured their mother wasn't at death's door, she elected to return to the surgery to help unload the horses before changing clothes and returning as soon as possible. They rumbled away.

Miz Bee appeared at the end of the hallway, squawking in dismay at the mud puddles accumulating on the tiles. "Don't nobody move!" she commanded, opening one of the built-in cabinets and withdrawing a stack of old towels kept there for just such an emergency. "Take those shoes off before any one of you takes another step. Just look at the mess you've made!"

The hubbub subsided as they all looked down at once. Conditioned over the years to obey either one of the Miz Bees' orders, each immediately removed his or her footwear. Miz Bee further instructed them to proceed to the greatroom and park themselves until she could bring out coffee and tea for all. "And kindly pipe down! Yer makin' noise enough to wake the dead, and there's your poor unwell mother upstairs!" Miz Bee grumbled her way back toward the kitchen.

 **Michael detained Jesse** until the others'd filed into the greatroom. "Erm... there's something you should probably know, brother, before Dad and Uncle Ron get here... Trini got this really weird text message earlier... " He handed Trini's phone over to his brother and let him read it.

"Someone's having you on, Mike," Jesse steamed. "We'll talk about this later... now's not the time!" Jesse handed the phone back and shooed his younger brother away, remaining in the hall to intercept his father and Uncle Ron once they arrived. He didn't have long to wait.

The LandRover came barreling up the drive, slewing sideways to a screeching halt and spraying gravel all over Jason's BMW 5 Series and Michael's Jaguar XT. There'll be some squealing over damages later, Jesse thought glumly.

 **Upstairs, Joanna Sheffield rapped at the door** and stuck her head in. "Hey Dorrie. Hey Jules. Okay if I come in?"

Dora smiled. "Jo... I'm so sorry you had to be disturbed at home. I kept telling Jesse I was fine but he insisted on calling you..."

The doctor came in and flipped on the overhead light, doing a double-take at Violet. "Oh... for a minute there I thought..." She set her bag on the foot of the bed. Violet relinquished the chair by the bed and stood off to the side.

Dr. Sheffield turned her attention to Dora. "So what's all this about, eh?"

"Nothing... I didn't do anything at all! I was just standing there talking with Blair and suddenly came over all faint. It only lasted a minute and I feel fine now. Everyone's making such a fuss over nothing!"

"We'll see. First, let me get your vitals and then we'll talk... and who's this over here?"

"This is Violet, one of our maids. She's been kind enough to keep me company."

Joanna turned and looked at the girl. "Could you excuse us now, please?"

Violet paused at the door, looking levelly at her employer. "If you don't tell her, I will..."

" **Tell me what?"** Joanna inquired, lifting an eyebrow.

"She hasn't been eating right or sleeping hardly at all, the two weeks I've been here. She has nightmares and bad daydreams... I overheard Missus Dottie telling Missus Martha that."

"Violet, please!" Dora exclaimed.

"And she thinks no one's been noticing she's running herself into the ground over this party... that's what Missus Dottie says," Violet continued stubbornly.

The doctor turned to back to her patient. "Is this true, Dora?"

Dora sighed and admitted it was.

Back to Violet, Dr. Sheffield said, "Ordinarily I wouldn't countenance gossip from a household menial... but in this case... you have my thanks. You've saved me a lot of time winkling out information that is of great help. Perhaps you could bring us fresh tea? Lemon and honey for me..."

Violet said she'd be back presently and left, closing the door gently behind her.

"Are your domestics always so outspoken, Dora?"

"This one is," Dora grumbled. "Let's get on with it so I can get up and join the others for dinner."

"Well... we'll see... you were in perfect health a month ago when we did your annual physical, so I doubt there's any cause for alarm. But at your advanced age, it's best not to ignore these anomalies." Dora tittered at the jest, her personal physician of twenty years being a year older than herself.

The doctor'd concluded her examination by the time Violet returned with the tea and was sitting back with her legs crossed at the ankles, seemingly in no hurry to leave. On the bedside table she'd placed a small plastic pouch with two tablets and a packet of mild sedative powders.

Over the tops of her spectacles, the doctor watched as the maid prepared their cups, handed them over, and stood at attention at the foot of the bed awaiting further orders. Something about the girl wasn't quite right—a little too alert, a lack of appropriate subservience? "Just out of curiosity, what would be _your_ diagnosis of Mrs. Ross' condition?"

 **Without hesitation, the girl replied firmly,** "Stress. Too much on her mind. And too many worries about things that have nothing to do with the party."

Doctor Sheffield nodded. "Well now, Dora... as it happens, I'm in complete agreement with this young lady. She seems to have a very capable head on her shoulders, which is why I'm conscripting her services as your personal aide for a few days. Someone else will have to take over her chores. Violet, is it? Would you be up to that, do you think?"

"I don't know much about nursing, m'am, but I'm sure I can manage." Spoken quietly and confidently.

Dora squeaked in indignation. "I don't need a nurse! And I have too much to do!"

"This isn't a suggestion, my dear. Either you agree, or you'll be spending the next few days in hospital for observation."

The patient scowled in irritation but finally acquiesced.

"Splendid! Now, Violet... I'm going to write out a list of instructions and placing you in charge. I'll inform the ducklings downstairs that they're to render enforcement assistance if necessary."

"Yes, m'am."

"Oh... and are you live-in or daily?"

"Daily... I'm only temporary."

"As I recall, Dora, you've several extra bedrooms... I'd prefer if Violet here could stay over at least two nights... if that's agreeable to her."

"Oh all right. If she's willing... but only a few days. We'll be needing all the rooms later in the week."

Violet didn't particularly appreciate being discussed as if she weren't standing right there, but decided in favor of a welcome if brief respite from the cramped bedsit she was currently sharing with another girl in town. "Yes m'am, I can do that."

"Has Mr. Ross arrived yet?"

"Yes m'am... he's in the sitting room with the others and not happy. Mr. Jesse wouldn't let him or any of the others come up, as per your instructions."

"Good for him! Would you please go and tell Mr. Steve he can come up now?"

Dora added a few instructions of her own, and with a "Yes m'am," Violet vanished.

 **Earlier, there'd been a brief clash of wills** between father and son in the hallway, when Jesse'd somewhat forcefully prevented his father from rushing up the stairs and persuaded him to join the rest of the family instead. Ron, having been informed that his wife'd already gone home, told Jesse he was 'borrowing' the Rover and would return it in the morning. Then he'd turned around and left. Julia and Ian'd returned in the meantime.

When the maid came downstairs into the greatroom to summon Steve, he leaped up from his position surrounded by offspring and their significant others, all looking thoroughly worried. They stared expectantly as she entered the room, followed by Miz Bee.

"Missus Ross asks that you all please go into dinner as usual and not keep Miz Bee waiting, and not to worry, she'll see you all tomorrow. The doctor will come in and give you an update before she leaves. Mr. Ross, you're to go upstairs now."

"Dinner is ready, if you'll take your places..." Miz Bee announced.

Amidst some minor grumbling, they all got up and moved to the dining room. Until other arrangements could be made, Violet decided she'd best help serve, at least for tonight, so Steve went up alone.

He knocked on Dora's bedroom door and was bid enter. Dora looked perfectly fine, not nearly as ill as he'd expected. He went over to her and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "How's my girl? I'm so sorry I wasn't here... I got here as quickly as I could."

"I'm fine, darling... just a little tired, is all... but I'm afraid Jo has put me under house arrest for the time being..."

"Oh?" He straightened up and faced the doctor.

" **I've found absolutely nothing at all** wrong with your wife. Everything checks out," Dr. Sheffield said, "However, just to be on the safe side, I'm prescribing bedrest until tomorrow morning. I've given her something to help her sleep and assigned a watchdog—your maid, Violet—to make sure my instructions are carried out for the remainder of the week."

"Whatever you say, doctor." Steve looked awful, with big bags under his eyes and needing a shave. His clothing reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke and he looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.

Dr. Sheffield's eyes traveled up and down and she voiced a most unprofessional comparison as to what he _did_ look like... "Are you feeling ill?"

"No... yes... I don't know..." he admitted, rubbing his jaw.

"If you're having trouble sleeping as well, I could give you something... you look as though you could use it."

She expected him to refuse her offer but he surprised her. "I'd be grateful. Thanks."

Sheffield rummaged around in her pink bag and extracted two more packets of powder. "Take these before you go to bed... same as what I've given Dora." She looked from him to Dora and back.

"Whatever you two need to straighten out would be best left until tomorrow." She'd noticed the heightened tension between them as soon as Steve'd come in. "Violet has the list and some prescriptions that need to be filled tomorrow. I'm going downstairs now to throw a bone to your pups to keep them busy and out of your hair, but I'll stop by again tomorrow to see how you're coming along. Steve, I'd recommend you leave her to get her rest, if you catch my meaning... and for heaven's sake, man, get yourself cleaned up! You stink like a distillery!"

"I understand. Thank you for coming, Dr. Sheffield... I know you don't usually make house calls..." Steve said humbly.

The doctor grinned and winked at Dora. "Only for very special patients! Don't let it get out though, or everyone will be expecting it!" With that, she left.

 **After the doctor'd delivered a brief summary** and an assurance that Dora was in no danger, faces at the dinner table brightened up and the meal progressed on a much relieved note. Michael and Trini volunteered to help clear. Jason and Sarah were anxious to get home—their 'date' having been interrupted (it wasn't often they could enjoy a night at home alone without the children). Julia and Ian left to finish tending to the two new horses they'd just brought into the clinic. Dottie retired to her suite to watch 'Britain's Got Talent'. Steve, following the doctor's suggestions, took a very long, very hot shower and checked on his wife, who was sleeping soundly in their bedroom. By then he was staggering with fatigue himself and fell into bed in the guestroom next door, acutely aware of the empty place beside him.

By the time Jesse and Violet'd returned from Tockwith, where he'd driven her to collect her few things from the bedsit, and then helped her carry it upstairs to the other spare bedroom, it was closing on midnight. Miz Bee'd finally gone home, hours after her normal quitting time.

Jesse was exhausted and had a blazing headache, but was too wound up to drop off immediately... so many concerns... Mum's (as he perceived it) delicate condition, Dad's as yet unresolved (and still unannounced) four-decades-old peccadillo, the unfathomable (and unbelievable) insinuation regarding Dad and Uncle Ron, the unexplained deception perpetrated by Aunt Hazel and DoDo, the imminent arrival of Yvonne and the PeaPods and their 'surprise' guests... and... witches? What was up with _that?_

Just before he fell asleep, he recalled something Elayne'd once said... an old Cajun observation: _'When you're up to your armpits in alligators, it hard to remember that your original objective was to drain the swamp.'_

The Day from Hell had at last come to an end.

 _ **Meanwhile, back at the hotel...**_ Nothing was happening in the Obama Suite. Their private Harry Potter film festival in progress, the two nightgowned and bathrobed witches sprawled languidly on the L-shaped sectional sofa in the sitting room, picking at the remains of their dinner. Instead of room service, they'd elected to phone in a Pizza Hut® delivery order—two large crispy crust with everything. The appalled front desk clerk'd personally escorted the suitably impressed courier to the door of the suite.

Elayne mashed the 'pause' button on the DVD player's remote, freezing Harry and Hermione in midaction on the screen, in order to answer a call of nature.

They were on the third installment—'Prisoner of Azkaban'. Earlier they'd determined that one bottle of wine per film would be just about right and so had had eight bottles sent up.

Five more films to go. They'd be up all night. But... hey!... witches could do that sort of thing without suffering any ill effects. Right?

Elayne and Sally both fell asleep halfway through 'Order of the Phoenix'. Neither one heard their cell phones go off—Dottie attempting to relay the requested update on Dora's condition.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18: INTERMEZZO**_

 **Tuesday, November 18** **th** **…** In accordance with pre-event revised schedules,Miz Bee (Missus Martha today) arrived before dawn to get breakfast underway, having picked up Denise on the way. While she grumbled about all the extra work, Martha was secretly relishing having a houseful of family to feed for a change as it reminded her of her youth. Her own mother'd been head cook in a traditional grand manor house, bursting with children and bustling with guests year round. She herself'd started out as the lowliest of kitchen skivvies at age fourteen.

Martha's sister-in-law'd filled her in on yesterday's doings after she'd finally gotten home late last night, and the two of them'd determined to outdo themselves ensuring that—if nothing else—their shared responsibilities would be carried out like clockwork. They both agreed that that strange dark girl, Violet, was the more suitable choice for personal maid to Miz Dora and didn't begrudge her loss. They still had Denise and Martha knew of another young woman, a local, who would be pleased to take Violet's place for a few days.

Calculating that Ian, Julia, Jason and Sarah would detour by Follymoor to check on Dora's condition before dispersing for the day, Miz Bee'd prepared an unusually hearty breakfast which was highly praised and quickly consumed. Jules and Jason departed to their respective offices, Ian to his surgery, and Sarah to pick up her children at their other grandparents' house and take them on to school. Michael and Trini, being on holiday, were sleeping in. On his way upstairs, Jesse'd been intending to sneak in a check on his mother, only to be forestalled by Violet coming out of Dora's room.

"How's she doing?" he whispered anxiously.

"Very well. She's bathing and will be coming down for breakfast. If you want to wait and escort her downstairs, she'll be out shortly."

"I will, thanks..."

 **Violet went to the kitchen** to advise Miz Bee she wouldn't be needing to send a tray up for Miz Dora. While waiting for her mistress/patient to appear, Violet busied herself (over Miz Bee's objections) rinsing the first round of breakfast dishes and cutlery and loading them into the dishwasher. Jesse appeared a few minutes later.

"Dad ran me off... said he'll bring Mum downstairs himself. Got any coffee?"

Miz Bee told him he could go serve himself from the urn in the dining room and shooed both him and Violet out of her kitchen as Denise shot the latter an envious glance. With nothing better to do than wait, the two got their coffees and parked themselves at the table where Jesse attempted to draw out the reticent girl in conversation.

Other than the brief laundry room interlude, he really hadn't noticed her much since his arrival, and now—thrust in a one-on-one situation—was fascinated by how much she resembled his sister Julia. Both were tiny and bird-boned with curly, almost kinky, almost black hair. Of the four siblings, only Jules'd gotten the curls—the others' hair was straight. Only Jesse and Jules'd inherited their father's deep brown eye color; the twins' eyes were hazel like their mother's. Violet's eyes were as dark as his and Julia's.

All in all he rather liked the young woman, but something wasn't ringing true and he filed the notion away for later investigation as Dora appeared on Steve's arm with a cheery 'Good morning!'

 **Dora seemed perfectly recovered** while Steve, on the other hand, appeared gaunt and tired. Jesse's spirits took a nose dive, knowing his father wasn't in any shape to be communicating his unfortunate predicament any more than his mother was in a favorable enough condition to receive it. Which left him holding the bag.

Violet made to withdraw from the table but Dora grinned and motioned her to sit back down. "While you're my personal nurse you'll take your meals with us at the family table... in case I faint into my porridge! And only tradespeople call us Mr. or Mrs. Ross... how about a compromise? Miz Dora and Mr. Steve, like everyone else? It's more comfortable that way."

"Yes, m'am."

Eavesdropping from the kitchen door, Denise made a face and grumbled to Miz Bee, "Well isn't she Miss High-and-Mighty all of a sudden... if she thinks I'm going to wait on the likes of her..." But Miz Bee gave her a pointed look and the girl shut up.

As soon as the elder Rosses were seated, Miz Bee marched in with the morning's offerings and began serving. Dora looked down at plate in dismay. "I can't possibly eat all this!"

"You're going to at least try, Missus... um Miz Dora," Violet calmly instructed, pulling the list of directives from the front pocket of her pinny. "No pecking. You, too, Mr. Steve. Doctor's orders."

"I wasn't aware that I was on restriction as well," Steve retorted sharply.

"Well, you are... along with her. And I'm keeping score," Violet warned ominously.

Dora snickered and Steve couldn't help but smile.

"What else is on that list, Sergeant Major?" Jesse inquired.

" **Let's see... no skipping meals** for starters. Light fare... nothing too heavy or spicy. A short hack this morning if she feels up to it... but only an hour, walking only... no jumping or galloping. She's noted here 'make sure old slow nag'. That goes for the rest of the week."

"That'll be the day!" Steve snorted. "But I'll see to it."

"That goes for you, too."

"Now wait a minute!..."

"For the rest of the week, _she said_ ," Violet reiterated firmly. "Both of you, mild exercise like swimming or walks—short ones. At least a one hour nap every afternoon... not you, Mr. Steve, just her. Be in bed at a decent hour and stay there at least eight hours, even if you're not asleep the whole time. As little excitement as possible. Keep visitors down a minimum. There's more but those're the basics."

"House arrest! Held incommunicado against my will!" Dora lamented. "What if I need to go shopping?"

"No shopping. Others can do that for you. Dr. Sheffield wants you to stay at home."

"But what about the party... am I to be prevented from attending my own party?"

"Miz Dora," Violet said evenly, "The express purpose of this regime is so that you _will_ be rested and fit enough to _enjoy_ your party from beginning to end without keeling over."

"Makes sense to me," Steve admitted. "I'll do my part."

"Good. Now eat your breakfast, both of you," Violet commanded.

 **Dorothy'd joined them** and demurely taken her place at the table. Dora pointed a finger at her. "You! Don't you ever run off like that again! We were frantic!"

"Sorry, dear. Won't happen again. Have you seen the keys to my cart?" Dottie was nonchalantly buttering her toast.

Jesse fished in a pocket and pulled out the keys, dangling them in mid-air. "You get these back on one condition... you have to promise that from now on you'll let someone know where you are at all times."

Dottie smiled sweetly and held her hand out. "Of course..."

"Say it, Dodo!"

"Oh very well... I promise I'll let someone know... keys, please?"

Jesse handed them over. "And another thing, about yesterday..."

Dora chimed in... "Why were you...?"

The old lady focused her blue eyes first on one then the other, blinking rapidly... "What about yesterday?"

Both Dora and Jesse suddenly forgot whatever it was they were about to ask while Steve looked on curiously. Violet nodded her head and placidly addressed her eggs _sotto voce_. "There's one accounted for..."

 **After a few minutes Dora announced** that she'd had enough, pushing her plate away. Violet inspected the remains and agreed that an acceptable amount'd been ingested. Steve asked Dora if she felt like a hack and she said she did. He pulled out his cell and dialed, then put the phone on speaker. Bill Chadwick's tinny voice responded. "Good morning, Boss, what can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Chadwick. Are any of those old hayburners in rideable condition today?"

"Well... yes, I suppose... there's Hector and Otto... slow as Christmas but dependable... we put bairns up on 'em, sometimes. Why?"

"Just the ticket. Could you get them tacked up for myself and the missus? We'll be down in ten minutes."

There was a pause at the other end. "Seriously?"

"Yes, Mr. Chadwick. We're practicing being old people today so slow and dependable suits."

"If you say so, Boss... I'll have 'em ready."

"Okay thanks... we'll be there shortly." Steve rang off. "There, that's settled."

Dora was looking annoyed. "Don't be silly. Those animals can barely shuffle. If we've only got an hour, we won't even get as far as the gate before we'll have to turn back."

"Take it or leave it, sweetheart," Steve shrugged as Violet nodded approvingly.

"Do you ride?" Steve asked Violet.

"I can. Haven't in a while, though."

"You're welcome to come along if you like."

"No thanks. If you're going to be with her every minute, then I'll stay here and help Missus Martha."

Dottie stood up first, "I'm off to see Maude, if you want to ride down with me?"

 **Steve and Dora excused themselves** to hitch a ride on the cart. Jesse was about to help Violet carry dishes to the kitchen when Michael and Trini strolled in for their turn at the trough, looking charmingly disheveled. Jesse sat back down and Violet promised to return in a moment with their breakfast. They were healthy, hungry boys and she had to make several trips.

Some sort of heated discussion was taking place between the brothers, with occasional contributions by Trini, which broke off whenever she was in the room. But Violet's keen ears overheard much of the exchange from the passageway between the dining room and the kitchen.

"That's just a load of BS," Jesse was saying vehemently, "If it were true we would have known long before this... YOU would have known, both of you! You're always saying gaydar doesn't lie... someone's just trying to stir things up and we have enough trouble as it is!"

"It does happen, brother dear," Michael was countering. "One reads about it all the time... men who've been model family men for years suddenly shoot out of the closet and there you are..."

"Not _our_ father." Here Jesse pounded the table and china could be heard clinking. "I refuse to accept it!"

Trini's softer, silker voice cut in. "Why don't you just ask him outright?"

"Are you out of your mind? He'd blow his top!"

"Then ask Uncle Ron first," Michael reasoned, "Or both of them together... confront them with the facts..."

"Those aren't facts, dammit! It's hearsay." Jesse was shouting now. "Why don't _you_ ask him?"

 **Miz Bee poked her head out the kitchen door** and spied Violet loitering in the passage, giving her a disapproving nod. "Don't just stand there listening to those ninnies bicker, girl... while you're waiting for Miz Dora you can go straighten her room."

Upstairs, Violet floated about the bedroom, making the bed and setting things to right while mulling over this new intel. In her two weeks' tenure she'd noticed Mr. Steve's erratic behavior and put it down to business woes or possibly mistress trouble. She'd seen plenty of both in other households she'd worked in. Sunday she'd been busy in the laundry most of the day but she figured something important'd happened then because now he was even more agitated and looking guilty on top of it. That the problem might be boyfriend trouble rather than girlfriend was a fascinating development and, really, one that she was hard put to believe. But one never knew, did one?

Dora'd forgotten to take her cell with her and now it jittered on the nightstand as it tinkled out a tune—a digitized version of 'The Lightning Tree,' made popular by The Settlers and reaching number 36 in the UK Singles Chart in 1971—but of course Violet didn't know that. She reached for it and flipped it open."

"Mrs. Ross' cell phone... this is Violet," Violet said tentatively.

An older woman's voice was at the other end. "Good morning, Violet. This is Elayne Calhoun—I'm a very old friend of Mrs. Ross and I'd like to leave a message for her..."

"Yes m'am... just a second." Violet fished in her pocket for the notepad and pen she always kept there. "Go ahead..."

"As soon as she and her husband get back from their ride, would you inform her that Mrs. Calhoun is staying at the Branson Virgin-Royaume in Harrogate and would like her to call as soon as possible... here's my private number..."

Violet wrote the number down and repeated it back for confirmation. "Yes m'am... I'll inform her directly she returns. Good bye."

After flipping the phone closed, Violet contemplated how someone miles away could possibly know Miz Dora's exact whereabouts. "Two down, two to go..." she murmured to herself, smiling as she made her way downstairs.

 **Violet entered the kitchen just as Estelle,** a stout freckle-faced girl from the village, was being introduced as her replacement to Jesse and his brother and that pretty French boy who'd wandered in carrying the last of the soiled breakfast dishes. Miz Bee snorted that she'd been about to come in and get them herself as well as turf the boys out of the dining room. They'd been in there well over an hour chitchatting like schoolgirls and it was almost time to redd up the table for luncheon and would they please just put everything on the counter and quit cluttering up her kitchen. The 'boys'—all in their thirties—made kissy noises and ignored her, queing up to meet the new maid, whose round face dimpled in embarrassment. Denise would have been green with envy had she not been downstairs making beds. As had many a deluded girl before her, she couldn't decide which she fancied more—Michael or Trini—and was dead certain she could turn either or both around, given half a chance.

The assemblage could hear the master and mistress coming long before they reach the end of the hallway.

"Will you for heaven's sake let go of me?!" Dora sounded more than a trifle irritated, stomping through the door to the kitchen with Steve right behind her and Dottie skulking behind him, rolling her eyes. Seeing six questioning faces turned her way, Dora's lower lip stuck out even further.

"Don't any of you have anything better to do? Go away! Leave Miz Bee alone!" she snapped before swirling around to her husband, "Especially you. Go bother someone else for a while!"

"But dear..." Steve looked pathetically helpless.

"I'm going upstairs to change into my bathing suit so you needn't follow. I already have one limpet too many. Then I intend to sit out by the pool and read... _alone_ , where it's _peaceful and quiet_... _if you don't mind_." Dora was practically snarling and Steve looked stricken.

"But Dora..."

 **Michael was the first one** to make a move. "Come on, Dad. Let's go down to Ian's and see those ponies he and Jules brought in last night. She says they're Camargues but I doubt it... what would they be doing way up here? Hey, ya wanna drive the Jag?... " His words trailed off as he hustled his father back down the hall toward the garage, Trini following at a discreet distance. Jesse and Violet stared at each other in consternation, before he bolted from the kitchen. Miz Bee heaved an audible sigh of relief then summoned Estelle from the dark corner she'd shrunk back into, her eyes round as saucers.

"This is Missus Ross, the mistress. Miz Dora, this is Estelle Plum, granddaughter of Mr. Plum what used to deliver the milk? She works over to Squire Pinkston's but him and his missus're on holiday this month. Estelle's glad of the work and the money in the meanwhile."

Dora abruptly switched to her gracious lady persona. "Please excuse my show of bad temper, Miss Plum. We're so fortunate and happy to have you and hope you enjoy your time here as well."

"Thank you, m'am. I'll do my best." The girl actually curtsied. How endearing.

Dora then made a few inquiries and requests of Miz Bee before heading off toward her room, Violet in tow.

 **Upstairs, Violet helped Dora off** with her boots and jodhpurs. "You're not supposed to be getting excited, you know. And don't get the idea I'm leaving you at the pool on your own."

Dora said a rude word. "Oh pooh! I love my husband, mind you... but he was hovering... he practically had his nose in my armpit. And those horses! Poor old things, they can barely hobble. We didn't even get out of sight of the barns! And then he wouldn't let go of my arm the whole walk back..."

"A lady called for you on your cell," Violet interposed serenely. "You'd left it on the nightstand so I answered it. Hope you don't mind."

"Well... er... no, I guess not."

Violet handed over the note and watched Dora's face light up.

"You're not supposed to have a lot of visitors, either..."

"Elayne is my oldest and dearest friend... she wouldn't miss our anniversary party for the world... but whatever is she doing in that hotel? She _always_ stays here!"

"Why don't you call her and find out?" Violet suggested drily.

"Oh... yes... of course!" She reached for the phone. Violet gathered up the discarded clothing and pretended to busy herself in the already cleaned lavatory where she could still overhear every word of the conversation, re-emerging just as the call was being concluded.

"Do you have a swimsuit, dear?" Dora asked as she was slipping into her own.

"Yes m'am... in my room..."

"Why don't you nip over and get into it... I promise I'll wait right here until you return."

 **Thirty minutes later the two of them** were deployed in lounge chairs poolside, with an ice chest of fizzy drinks brought out by Estelle at Miz Bee's direction. Dora'd brought a book out with her, as had Violet, but didn't feel like reading after all. Instead, she recounted for Violet's benefit the history of her and Elayne's friendship, concluding with "So we don't get to see each other as often as we'd like. My husband's of two minds about her, I'm afraid... always the gentleman, of course, but claims Elayne's a disruptive influence on me. I ask you, how bad of an influence can a seventy-five-year-old woman be?"

 _You have no idea... just wait until she's one hundred and one!_ Violet closed her eyes under her sunglasses and let the chatter flow over her. Dora's friend would be here within the hour and she was happier than Violet'd seen her in two weeks. Violet's great-great-grandmother'd always maintained that laughter was the very best medicine, and she believed it. She was looking forward to meeting this extraordinary woman... and having her almost-certainty confirmed. Every time Dora got up and went for a dip, Violet followed. She'd pulled her springy hair into a ponytail, but with each successive immersion more of it worked its way loose into a halo of black tendrils around her face.

The door to the enclosure clattered and Jesse strolled into their line of vision, throwing his towel onto the nearest deck chair.

" **Hey Mum... hey Jules."** He dove into the deep end of the pool and swam a few laps before paddling up to Violet, blinking water from his eyes. "Oh... it's you! I thought you were my sister," he apologized. "Sorry... I'm blind as a mole without my contacts!"

Treading water nearby Dora craned her head around to peer at her companion in mock surprise. "Why... now that you mention it, they _do_ look alike... why didn't I notice that before?"

A light bulb went on in Jesse's head... what'd been off-kilter at breakfast about this little dark person... her accent and slightly guttural Welsh speech patterns had unaccountably drifted into that liquid coastal California drawl that Jesse remembered so well. Not the vapid twittering of the famed beach bunny or the more nasal staccato whine of the dedicated mallrat, but the smooth honeyed cadences more often heard on the campuses of California's institutions of higher learning. Which begged the question: what was she doing here, masquerading as a maid in his parents' house? An alarming thought came to him, which he quickly squelched... _No, no, no... absolutely not! Lightning does not strike in the same place twice!_

"What's the matter, son? You look as if you'd just swallowed a bug!" Dora said, not waiting for a reply and climbing out of the pool with her minder right behind. Jesse, too, ascended the ladder and grabbed a towel before wheeling a lounge next to his mother's.

"Actually... I was just thinking about... family... how much we all look alike. Too bad we don't know anything about Dad's father's family..."

 **Expressions concealed behind their mirrored sunglasses,** Dora and Violet threw startled glances at each other. They'd agreed, when once again in private, that it would be best to continue keeping to themselves the nature of the previous evening's conversation, at least until Steve got over his current attack of moodiness, Dora said, and could give his full attention to the matter. Violca would continue in her role as Violet, maid-turned-nurse, until after the anniversary fete. When domestic life'd returned to normalcy would be time enough to present her revelations to the head of household.

Dora spoke mildly. "I know. I never met your grandmother Katherine... or her mother and sister. I would have liked to've had a chance to talk with them about the Rosses... and their people, as well. Your father always said they really knew nothing about his father but surely they must have known _something!_ "

"You know, if anyone can find out anything, it would be Vonda. I bet she'd enjoy a day trip to... what's the name of that place Dad's from?"

"Swillington... the colliery there closed years ago but the village—what's left of it—is still there. So she's still doing that genealogy thing?"

"Like a coonhound under a high moon. One good scent and she'll follow it to the ends of the earth. She and Maddy even went down to that FamilySearch library in Salt Lake City—that's in Utah—for a week..."

"Who's Maddy?"

"Oh... er... a friend of Vonda's... they help each other with online research."

"Do you really think she'd be able to find anything?" Dora was dubious.

"If there's anything _to_ find, she'll dig it up," Jesse avowed, with a sidelong glance at Violet with her unreadable face. She was up to something, he was sure... and he determined they would soon be having a private conversation about it.

 **The pool house door opened** to admit Dottie in her old-fashioned bathing suit with a pleated skirt around the bottom and a terry wrap, along with Hazel in a floral-themed bikini barely concealed beneath a gauzy cover-up. Dora stood up with her cell phone, excusing herself to walk to the other end of the deck to make a private call. Violet watched protectively until she rang off and came back to sit. Jesse assisted the ladies in rolling their loungers to a wider portion of the pool deck and arranging them in a wagon-wheel configuration with feet pointing toward the hub, adding an extra lounge for Elayne at his mother's direction. He gathered up all the small round plastic service tables and inserted them conveniently between the chairs for easy access,

Dora looked on, amused and gratified, as her first-born further ingratiated himself by plumping up cushions and adjusting backrests before filling plastic cups with ice and distributing these along with cans of soda. She'd done her best to instill gallantry, graciousness and gentlemanly behavior in both her sons starting at a very early age... and it'd certainly paid off.

 **With the luncheon hour closing in,** Estelle conveyed an inquiry from the kitchen: Would they be coming indoors to dine or would they prefer to have a cold luncheon served poolside? The ladies voted on the latter. Jesse said he'd wait and join the other men in the dining room whenever they returned. He excused himself to go back into the house.

Presently Estelle, Denise and Miz Bee came bearing platters of sandwiches, salads and cut fruits and pitchers of iced lemonade—all served in plastic picnic ware. Denise shot Violet an ugly look as she served. When they were done eating, Dora made a note of the time so that they would know when they could get back in the pool.

 **OPERATION ENLIGHTENMENT – OVERVIEW**

 _ **Earlier, back at the hotel...**_ "Oh hushpuppies!" Elayne'd exclaimed after ringing off the first time and delivering her message. "I'm afraid I've just given myself away."

"Too late to worry about it now," Sally'd said, refilling her coffee cup. "She's just a maid, after all, maybe it won't occur to her."

"Oh no... she's more than that... I can sense it. But, you know... that might work to our advantage if we can get to her... it'd be helpful to have an inside man... or girl, in this case... besides Dorothy."

Before Elayne could comment further, her phone rang. It was Dorothy... on a rant.

"Slow down, Dots... where exactly are you an' when can you be here? We're thinking of... oh, you can't? Well, that sucks!" There was a long interval where Elayne listened to what was evidently a diatribe, every now and then saying 'uh huh, uh huh.' Then, "No, no... I agree but I don't see what we can do about it... an' they're probably right. If she's feelin' poorly we don't wanna upset her more than necessary. Okay... well, keep in touch. We'll think of something. Oh, she is? All righty then... I'll be there soon's I can." She rang off.

"What's her beef today?" Sally asked, munching a ham-and-cheese croissant.

 **Elayne explained as she worked her way** around an onion bagel slathered with lox and cream cheese. Dottie was in trouble for having been absent with leave yesterday and was being watched like a hawk to preclude a repeat performance. "It's a dirty rotten shame when a eighty-five-year-old woman can't even take her own cow for walkies without being treated like a kindergartener."

"So what's the status at Fortress Ross?"

"The maid's been upgraded to Nurse Ratched an' charged with deflecting any undue influence or aggravation. I expect I'll be hearing from Dora shortly, if this Violet person gave her the message. They won't let her come to me, so she'll probably insist I come to her as soon as possible... but it'll have to be by myself. No offense, but they don't know you."

Sally nodded in agreement. "Probably best she doesn't see me yet... it might spur her memory just a little too quickly."

 **Elayne's phone rang a second time** and she checked the caller ID—it was Dora. Sally stood up to move away, give Elayne privacy, but the latter motioned to her to stay put. It was a brief conversation that ended with Elayne promising to be there as soon as she could, probably within the hour.

"Dora's insistin' I stay at the house. She wasn't expectin' me until Friday but it'd be out of character for me not to go. That means leavin' you on your own, though..."

"I'm sure I can manage, Elayne... and that simplifies where Maddy and Rowan will be staying, instead of getting another suite. But here's a thought... there _might_ another way of broaching the subject with Dora..."

"Oh? I didn't think there was an idea we'd missed," Elayne said wearily.

"An obvious one... the children."

"How do you mean?"

"Well... they all know you... you've been around since they were all born..."

"Yeah... so they know me... so what?"

"Which one do you feel closest to... the one who'd be most likely to listen?"

"I suppose that would be Jesse... the oldest. I was still livin' here up until he was about six years old. Julia woulda been too young to socialize much or remember being brought over to my house. The twins, not at all... they know I'm an old friend of their mother's but they've only ever seen me once or twice a year."

"Jesse's already sitting on one big secret. Perhaps if we bring him into the fold and enlighten him on a little bit of history... I mean, he wouldn't have ever heard about the week before his parents became engaged, would he? And he's going hear about it eventually—Dora's version of it, once she remembers everything."

"But he's a Normal..." Elayne protested. "He'd just chalk it up to another crazy story spun by a pair a senile old bats."

" **Elayne... think this through...** you yourself just last Saturday talked about how the curtain between their world and ours is losing its opacity and becoming more permeable. You've been married, what?... eight times?... and every one of _your_ husbands was a Normal! And there's Dorothy and Hazel... they married outside the tribe as well. Don't you think any of those men knew or suspected?"

"Well... I don't know," Elayne said. "I never told any a mine an' I reckon Dorothy's first husband didn't know. Slugger did, a'course. Hazel says she ain't never told Ron or their kids. It's a mighty iffy plan, tellin' Jesse."

"We're running out of time and options."

"I know! I know! Lemme think on this a minute... whaddya have in mind?"

"Jesse's very close to his mother, yes? And right now his main concern is her health and how that _other_ news will affect it. If we can set him right on that first issue by explaining what's causing her unquiet, then he can stop worrying about it and concentrate on resolving the other problem..."

"You mean... all of it? Everything?"

"Well... maybe just spoonfeed a little bit at first, to see if it goes down and stays down. I would have been presented to him at the party anyway, as his future grandmother-in-law... this way it'll happen just a little bit sooner. I don't know what if anything Rowan may have already confided to Pallas about our side of the family, but I'll find out. The thing is, we have to move soon... before Jesse's family arrives—while he still has free time. And it won't do at all for Dora to see Rowan in person before she's been fully apprised of the situation... she'd catch on in an instant and that would be too great a shock."

 **Sally continued to outline her plan.** "When you get there, you explain about your travelling companion, 'La Duchessa', and ask if you can prevail upon your handsome nephew to show a nice old lady around and escort her to dinner tonight! Once he gets here, I'll tell him who I really am and sound him out while you're at the farm doing the same with Dora."

"You know, that just might work," Elayne mused. "In fact, why not just go for broke... didn't you say you brought Boo's journal with you? Let him read that first an' see what he's gotta say _._ Him an' Yvonne neither one's got a prejudicial bone in their bodies. Don't seem to bother 'em a bit that their potential future son-in-law has such a mixed heritage. Maybe they'll just run with it..."

"We can only hope."

"On the other hand, they both might write off what they hear as a load of bushwah..."

"There's only one way to find out."

"Okay then... let's do it. You call the limo service an' I'll get my stuff together."

"Keep your fingers crossed!"


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19: REUNIONS, REVIVALS AND REVELATIONS**_

" **Look what the cat dragged in!"** Jesse announced, grinning as he reappeared forty-five minutes later in the pool enclosure with Elayne on his arm—all fluttering caftan, floppy sunhat and enormous sunglasses. Dora leaped from her lounge and enveloped her friend in a hug. "Elayne! It's so good to see you! You look fabulous!"

"You, too, sugarbooger... what's this I hear about you being under the weather? You look positively radiant!"

Elayne removed her sunhat and flung it aside, then pulled the caftan over her head. Jesse had to admit, for an old lady—a _real_ old lady—Elayne was in better shape than many thirty-somethings he'd seen. On any other woman the ensemble would have been ludicrous—leopard-print tankini with a matching turban and retro fifties-style rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses—but on her it was just right. Auntie Elayne was one of his very favorite people.

Before seating herself, Elayne looked at Violet with curiosity. The latter'd gotten up out of her chair and removed her shades. "Boy howdy! For a minute there I thought you was Julia... You must be Violet, yes?"

"That would be me," the girl answered, and shook the hand that was offered.

"Well, I'm Mrs. Calhoun but you call me Elayne. Very pleased to meet you. By the way, Dora, could I get a little bitty ole favor off you an' borry the loan a your son for the rest of the day?"

"What favor is that?" Dora asked.

"I'm here with a friend... we decided it'd be best if she waited back at the hotel 'til I could see for myself just how sick you really are. If he's up for temporary escort service, could he take her on a little drivin' tour an' maybe out to dinner? I guarantee he'll enjoy her company!"

Dora laughed out loud. "I suppose he's old enough now to speak for himself!"

 **In truth, Jesse wasn't thrilled with the prospect** of giving up an afternoon to entertaining some old trout he didn't know—but it _was_ Auntie Elayne asking, after all.

"Sure, I'll be happy to do that for you, Auntie Elayne... for your friend, I mean."

"Super! We're at the Branson Royaume-Virgin, Obama Suite... I'll call her and fix it up... just tell 'em at the front desk that 'La Duchessa di _Camerata_ ' is expectin' you."

 _Camerata? Maddy was already here?_ Catching on immediately, Jesse gave her a mock look of horror. "A duchess? My sweet old auntie's pimping me out to royalty now? What do I call her? What should I wear?"

"Call her 'Sally', 'cause that's her name, and business casual will be just fine."

 _Sally? Why was she using an alias? Why hadn't he been told of a change in plan?_ "When do you want me to go?"

"Right now would be good?"

"Right now it is, then... ladies, if you'll excuse me?" Jesse strutted off singing _'Call Me'_. The women all laughed and applauded except for Violet who wasn't familiar with the theme song from _'American Gigolo,'_ which'd come out before she was born.

Privately, Dora was experiencing relief during this show of silliness. Jesse'd been so... out of sorts ever since his arrival. Not depressed, exactly... but something was definitely not right with his world. Despite his earlier assurance, she hoped it wasn't marital trouble; there hadn't been a hint of that in the two decades her son and beloved daughter-in-law'd been together... but there was no such thing as a perfect marriage, as she well knew. Yet, she was his mother and she worried.

 **After Jesse's departure,** Dora was looking up at the dome from the depths of her lounge. "Camerata... Camerata... why does that name seem familiar?"

"I'm sure it'll come to you later, honey. But wait a minute... let me give Sally a buzz first..." Elayne dug around in her tote for her cell phone, reminding Dora of the time when Dottie, in her younger working years, never went anywhere without her bulging carryall from which she could produce everything but a kitchen sink.

After a short conversation in a language Dora didn't know, Elayne rang off and turned to Violet who'd remained at parade rest until the older women were seated, a respectful observance among her people when in the presence of an elder.

Violet wasn't particularly surprised when this Missus Elayne addressed her in Caló... as there was no question of keeping secrets from a witch as powerful as this one.

" _I have no wish to impugn your code of honor, but I ask that you regard as confidential whatever is said here today and swear on the memory of your ancestors that you will not reveal our secrets."_

" _I swear,"_ Violet said solemnly, taking the gold medallion that hung from a chain around her neck and pressing it to her lips.

Elayne smiled knowingly and reached out to touch the girl's cheek gently. _"I think you and I may have something interesting to discuss later... but first things first... let's see what we can do to unravel Dora's mystery for her."_

" _I understand,"_ Violet said.

Dora was nodding her head. "You never cease to amaze me, Elayne, with all the languages you know!"

Elayne settled into the lounge chair on Dora's other side. "Now I want to hear all about what's been happening lately... and especially what happened yesterday. Don't you dare leave out a thing! You can speak freely... Violet there is now sworn to secrecy... and once a _gitana_ gives her word, it stays given."

"How did you know she's... never mind... I probably don't want to know anyway!"

 **The remaining menfolk—Steve, Michael and Trini—** had just walked back up through the woods from the farm on the way to lunch. Their path took them near the pool enclosure where they could not only see through the tinted paneling the gathering of women in there but hear intermittent gales of laughter.

"Sounds like Elayne's arrived," Steve remarked, not especially pleased but resigned to her presence. The American woman'd always been too brassy and flamboyant for his taste, but as she'd been Dora's friend for forty-three years, there wasn't much he could do about it. Reluctantly he followed the boys into the dome to make his obeisances, after which he was tempted to comment on Dora's need for rest... and then decided not to. His wife looked so happy and relaxed in the company of the three women closest to her, plus her temporary guardian.

The men prudently retreated to leave the ladies to their hen party and attend to their own lunch. One did not keep Miz Bee waiting indefinitely and she'd already called down to the farm to remind them that it was being served on the dot.

When Steve'd commented on Jesse's absence from table, he'd been informed by Miz Bee that his older son'd gone up to Harrogate on some private errand. Afterwards, when they'd stood up to let Denise and Estelle clear, Michael'd somewhat hesitantly extended an invitation to join himself and Trini on whatever ramble they'd planned for the afternoon. Steve declined with the excuse of pressing business, which his son didn't believe for a minute. Instead, he confounded his father by walking over and giving him a fierce hug.

"It's okay, Dad... we understand... truly we do! It'll all work out, you'll see." Then the two youngsters went upstairs to change into their usual uniforms of board shorts, tank tops and rope-soled sandals, leaving a baffled Steve in their wake.

 **Steve retreated to his study,** closing the door behind him, and went to his desk. In the aftermath of last night's excitement, he'd successfully thrust the spectre of his bastard son from his mind. There was no getting around the fact that he was going to have to tell his wife. The question was how and when... the 'when' option shrinking by the minute. He could call Yvonne himself and insist she not bring her two guests at this time, but that would only put off the inevitable. And there was the very great possibility his daughter-in-law or one of the children might drop an ill-timed comment. He'd thought about working his way around to the subject during the morning ride, but there hadn't been time enough. He'd considered several other scenarios in which he could get Dora away all to himself... but after the way she'd rebuffed him this morning, that didn't seem likely. And now, of course, surrounded by her coterie of women... which most likely would expand to include Jules and Sarah... there was no chance whatsoever.

Steve wondered where Jesse'd gone without notice, whether he shouldn't have taken up Michael and Trini on the offer, what Ron was doing this afternoon... oh right... it was Wednesday and Ron had a standing golf date at the country club. Steve himself never could get into the game... or any game other than a passing interest in footie, which he'd played with other boys at the orphanage but not since... He realized he was feeling sorry for himself and that, in some way, it hurt his feelings to be excluded from everyone else's activities. Feeling unloved and abandoned, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a double brandy. Back at his desk, he fired up his iMac and began reexamining the damning documentation.

 **The pool party was interrupted** by the arrival of Dr. Sheffield, come to check on her patient's progress. Though a bit disgruntled to find her patient surrounded by merrymakers, she grudgingly admitted Dora seemed healthy and in good spirits.

"You should take it easy the rest of the week, though, and follow the instructions I left with Violet because... any more fainting spells and you'll find yourself spending your fortieth anniversary in the diagnostic ward at Duchy! Let this be the extent of any excitement, do you understand me?"

"Yes m'am," Dora answered grumpily, adding under her breath, "Party pooper!"

Joanne Sheffield was almost out the door. "I heard that! And I meant what I said!"

Between dips the women caught up on family news (husbands and significant others—both archived and current; children—accomplished and successful; grandchildren—all brilliant) and moved on to general gossip—the topic most favored by women all over the world wherever two or more are gathered. For the next hour they indulged in the basest of speculation, condemnation, character assassination, reputation shredding, innuendo and downright slander of anyone they didn't care for, both living and dead. And when even that was exhausted, the conversation shifted around to _The Future_... exactly where Elayne wished to take it.

"Dora, honey... the girls and I have something we wanna discuss with you, but before we get started, let's do something fun... like have Violet here tell your fortune." She turned to Violet. "You _do_ know how, doncha, darlin'?"

Dora cut in. "Elayne, really... that is _so_ rude! You're assuming that just because she's..."

"Oh... I know _how_..." Violet interjected, blushing. "I learned from my granny... but here? Now? In front of everyone? That would be like... an invasion of privacy!"

"I don't mind," Dora said, "but you don't have to do it if it makes you uncomfortable. We've all been friends for so long we haven't any secrets left anyway!"

 _That's what you think!_ Violet was thinking. "Okay. I'll do it."

 **Violet removed the elastic** holding back her curly hair and shook it out over her shoulders. Looking around and spotting Hazel's gauzy wrap she unfurled it and draped it over her head. As the others watched curiously, she once again grasped the gold medallion, kissed it and made the sign of the cross.

"Saint Agabus," she explained, "Patron saint of fortune tellers." Exchanging seats with Elayne, she instructed Dora to hold out her right hand, palm up, which Dora did. Violet traced the life lines there, murmuring to herself. At last, still holding Dora's hand, she held out her right hand, palm up, and looked directly into Dora's eyes. "It _is_ customary to cross a fortune teller's palm with silver."

"Sorry... I'm fresh out of silver coins, Violet."

"Anything made of silver will do as long, as long as it has value to you..."

With her free hand, Dora detached one of her silver and diamond earrings—birthday gifts from Steve—and ceremoniously placed it in Violet's palm. Violet pretended to bite the earring as if to test that it was real silver, then casually set it aside on a table.

"Wait a minute... doncha need a crystal ball or something?" Elayne queried.

"No. That's just nonsense to impress the suckers... er, customers... no offense!" Violet added hastily. "I mean... you folks might have a use for them but us... we find our visions right up here." She tapped the side of her head and Dora wondered what on earth she meant by that.

Covering Dora's still outstretched hand with her own, Violet closed her eyes and began speaking softly.

" **A strange man is coming into your life very soon..."** she began and Dora started to giggle.

"Oh... come on! You can do better than that!"

"No... seriously... very..."

"Tall, dark and handsome?" Dora cut in facetiously.

"Not very tall, no... not especially handsome—kinda cute, maybe... and, as I was about to say, very young. Might grow some, of course."

"Oh... so it's a boy then? We could use a boy around here!"

"Older than a boy... nineteen maybe? Plus or minus a year. Oh wait... there's another one... older... this one is dark and nice looking but not very tall either... possibly they're related?"

Dora wrinkled her brow, perplexed. "I can't think who they might be."

"Of course not. You haven't met them yet."

"But who are these men? Do you know?"

"Haven't the foggiest," Violet admitted. "But they represent the past _and_ the future. They are of your house, but not of your flesh, whatever that means."

"And will I be encountering these gentlemen in the near future?"

"Very soon, I should think. First one will come, then the other. They will bring both sadness and happiness."

"Men generally do, so that isn't news," Elayne sniffed.

"Where are they coming from?" Hazel inquired.

"A long ways off, across water... that's all I see."

"You know, she could make good money writing fortunes for Chinese cookies," Dora couldn't resist cracking.

Violet's eyes flew open, startling Dora. "It would help if you kept an open mind and at least pretended to take me seriously."

" **Sorry! Sorry! It's not been a good day.** I was hoping you would cheer me up."

The girl shrugged. "How about, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you. You're just stressed out and need a break."

"You've got me there, all right... so what else have you got?"

"What else do you want?"

"Details about what the future holds would be nice."

"It's not an exact science, you know. We don't do details."

"Okay... generalities then... for instance, will trouble come into this house?"

Violet rolled her eyes. "Show me a house that doesn't have troubles in it!"

"You know what I mean. Specifically, is something bad about to happen... to me or to someone I love?"

"Yes, no and maybe."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"The only one I can give at the moment. But not to worry... all shall be revealed, all shall be resolved. Your friends are working on it."

"What friends?"

Violet gestured impatiently at Elayne, Dottie and Hazel. "These friends... the ones who watched us as we spoke yesterday evening."

"Violet," Dora said patiently, "there were only two of us in the room. What are you talking about?"

" **Your witch friends... there's four of them altogether.** I'm guessing the fourth one is the lady Mr. Jesse has gone to meet."

"Are you by any chance a witch yourself?" Dora asked mildly, as if that were an everyday question.

"Who? Me? Certainly not! I'm just an ordinary amateur fortune teller."

"Somehow I doubt that... but please do continue. This is fascinating!"

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Elayne spoke uneasily. Unwittingly, the girl was spewing information more quickly than they'd planned... and it was too late to cram that genie back in the bottle.

Violet'd returned to holding Dora's hands in hers, with her eyes closed in deep concentration. Suddenly she let go, clutching her fists to her chest and opening her eyes wide. She bolt upright, shivering and looking fearful. "That was weird!"

"What was?"

"I thought... it seemed... those two men... I can't see their faces but their shapes are familiar... I know these men. I don't understand why, but I do. This is too creepy for me. I'm done!"

Dora shrugged and replaced her earring. "Oh well... I never really believed in that sort of thing anyway. What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Elle?"

" **Dottie says you been havin'** a lotta nightmares lately..."

Hazel threw out the baited hook: "Ron and I sure have been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately, too... lots of weird dreams. I told him I thought we might be eating too much too late in the evening... but Ron said Steve's having the same problem and I know you have dinner a lot earlier than we do, so that must not be it..."

Elayne took up the theme: "Could just be creepin' senility... ya start thinkin' too much about how old yer gettin' and then ya start having bad dreams about bein' young again, an' then ya start second-guessin' shoulda I done this or shoulda I done that..."

Dorothy chimed in: "I have bad dreams myself, every once in a while... but then I wake up and think, what's done is done... just live for the day..."

Violet sensed that a contribution was expected from her as well. "I don't often have nightmares, but when I do I try to remember as much as I can so I can think about them in the daytime. Sometimes if you think about something scary long enough, you can figure it out and it isn't scary any more."

 **Little by little Dora was drawn into** the nightmare versus daydream discussion and began telling of her own recent incidents. "But they're not just dreams, you see... I'm sure they're flashbacks to something that happened the week I turned twenty-one, the week that Steve proposed... what I don't understand is why I'm having them now. That's what happened yesterday... I had a flashback, a strong one, and I fainted."

"Do you remember what it was about?" Elayne inquired casually. They were entering terra incognita—to Dora, anyway—where her aim was to delicately guide the younger woman scene by scene through a minefield of recollections. But she was thrown off stride as Dora looked her full in the face.

"I do, actually. And I don't know what to do about it."

"What to do about... what?" Elayne asked with caution.

"About the witchcraft you used to get Steve to marry me. I know he didn't want to—he as much as told me, for three years, why he couldn't and wouldn't. And then suddenly he changed his mind. I should have realized that's not how it happens... but I didn't know any better and I wanted him so badly." Tears welled up.

Elayne hopped up and knelt by Dora's chair. "There, there, honey! It ain't at all what you think..."

 **Violet stood up abruptly.** "Okay... show-and-tell's over for now. Her doctor says she's to have at least an hour's nap in the afternoon so you'll have to continue this some other time." With that she took hold of Dora's wrist, pulling her up from her chair and leading her out of the pool enclosure. Before they reached the door, Violet turned her head. "I'll just be a few minutes." The unspoken message being, _'Don't go away just yet, I'm coming back to talk to you'_.

The remaining three held a quick consultation.

"We can't just sit here all day," Hazel complained. "I've got to get home before my housekeeper leaves for the day and Ron gets in from golf. He always in a bad mood after a day on the links because he usually loses."

"I could use a nap myself," Elayne sighed. "This ain't gonna be easy."

Dorothy checked her wristwatch. "I've got my stories to watch this afternoon... you can use my bedroom, Elayne, and then stay for dinner."

They chatted a few more minutes until Violet reappeared.

"Got her tucked in, have you?" Dorothy asked.

"Not without a struggle," Violet admitted. "Missus Martha said she'd go up in a while to check on her for me. So..." She hunkered down on the footrest of one of the lounges. "You know and I know there's nothing physically wrong with Missus Dora... whatever it is is all in her head. Can you tell me, in one or two paragraphs? It might be none of my business but it would be helpful to know what I'm dealing with as long as I'm the one minding her."

 **Dottie shot a glance at Elayne.** "Hmmph! She's no more a simple housemaid than I'm the Queen Mother. I vote we tell her."

"And I second the motion," Elayne chirped.

Violet pointed her finger first at Elayne then at Dottie. "I know you and you are witches... and probably the lady Mr. Steve is with. You ..." The finger swiveled to Hazel. "I'm not sure about... you smell different."

"Very astute!" Elayne murmured.

"I do not either smell!" Hazel proclaimed indignantly.

"Pardon me... I meant scent... or aura... something like that. Yours is different."

"What you sense in Hazel is Elf, although she _is_ an honorary witch."

"Whatever!"

"Are you a witch, too?" Hazel asked Violet.

"Missus Ross already asked me that. No, I'm not. I don't have any manual powers... all I have is the Sight. For outsiders I can do Tarot, read palms, tea leaves, crystals... you know, the usual stuff."

"Well, that's more than I've got," Hazel grumped, adding "I dropped out of training."

"Violet, have you been talking to Jesse?" Elayne asked gently. "Has he said anything to you about... er... anything?"

Violet frowned. "Not really... but I sense that he and his father are sharing a secret that's going to cause big trouble if they don't let it out soon... what?" She realized the other three were staring at her as if she'd sprouted a spiral horn from her forehead.

Dorothy crossed herself. "You really do have the gift!"

"Do you know what the secret is?" Elayne asked.

"No... but of course _you_ do... you're all in on it, aren't you?"

"Yes an' no... we have our own secret, but ours has to do with why Dora is having these flashbacks."

"Let's make a deal... you tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," Violet proposed.

 **SALLY PHONES HOME**

 _ **Earlier, back at the hotel...**_ Sally'd called home. With the seven-hour time differential, it was only four in the morning there but Bernard would already be awake. She'd long ago quit worrying that he wasn't getting enough sleep—Boo possessed an uncanny ability to catnap anywhere, anytime, anyplace... and frequently did so throughout the day.

He answered on the second ring. "Hey sweetie... how's it going? I miss you!"

"I miss you, too... and it's not going anywhere yet. There're complications. Elayne's over at the farm and I'm getting ready for a date!"

"Are you now? Anyone I know? Should I be jealous?"

"Damn Skippy! He's young and cute and I'm thinking of running off with him!"

They bantered for another thirty minutes before Sally said she had to go, that she missed him and needed to hear his voice. She admitted that her 'date' was with Jesse Ross and that she hoped he proved to be of a milder disposition than his father. Maddy'd had nothing but favorable comments regarding the junior Ross family and Jesse in particular. "Sure wish you'd reconsider and come join us..."

"I'll think on it some more..."

"Please do. Love ya! Kiss, kiss! I'll call again as soon as there's some progress."

 **The phone rang.** It was Elayne with a convoluted accounting of Violet's relationship to the Rosses that left Sally nearly speechless with laughter. The next call was to Madeleine, in temporary residence at Telemark Lodge along with her son. A sleepy voice answered.

"Maddy darling... sorry to wake you... are all your travel plans on track?"

"Yes, Mother... we're all packed and ready. I'll email the specifics later today."

"How's our boy holding up? Is nervous about meeting his dad's family?"

"If he is, he's not letting on. Has Jesse told his father yet?"

"Yes. But Steve hasn't told Dora."

"Ooops..."

"Yeah... oops... and there's other complications we hadn't counted on. Steve's not the only one who's in for a surprise... Viva's here... at the farm."

"What?! _Violca?_ Are you're kidding... what's _she_ doing there?"

"Masquerading as a housemaid, evidently. But listen, that's just between you and me, okay? Don't say anything to Row yet."

"Are you sure it's her? Does she know about Row and Pallas?"

"Absolutely... and yes, she knows now!"

"How could this have happened?"

"It would take too long to explain and I've gotta hurry—got a date this afternoon..."

"What do you mean, _'a date'?_ With who? Does papa know about this? What in _hell_ is going on, Mom?"

"Oh crap... there goes the door buzzer and I'm not even dressed! I'll fill you in later tonight when I get back."

"But Mom..."

"Later, I promise... Bye, honey... love you!"


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20: BEYOND THE FAR HORIZON**_

 **At the entrance to the Branson Virgin-Royaume,** Jesse surrendered to the valet the keys to his mother's silver Captiva. He'd thought about asking to borrow his dad's Rover when Ron'd brought it back this morning, followed by Hazel in her own vehicle, but had reconsidered that the Captiva would be a more comfortable ride for sightseeing. He'd dropped Ron back home on his way to town.

Identifying himself at the reception desk, Jesse was informed that, yes, La Duchessa was expecting him, and was directed to the Obama Suite on the sixth floor. A tap at the double doors produced a barefooted lady who definitely _wasn't_ Madeleine… but a taller, older version with the same creamy café au lait complexion, wearing snug-fitting stone-washed jeans and a gray University of Montana hoodie. Only her long silver hair, woven into a single thick plait, and a faint tracery of wrinkles around the corners of those remarkable amber eyes marked her as one of his mother's generation. Clearly, in her day she would have been a celebrated beauty. But a princess?

"Hi… er… hello. I'm… uh… Jesse Ross… Aunt Elayne sent me…" Jesse stammered.

The woman smiled and gestured to him to enter. "Come on in... I'm Sally. Welcome to the big game camp! Isn't it tacky as all get out?" She had a nice tinkly laugh. He took the cool hand extended to him.

"You're... um... not quite what… uh… _who_ I expected,"

"While _you_ , dear boy, are _exactly_ as I expected... you and Robert are carbon copies of your father!" She seemed delighted by that fact.

"You know my father?"

"We met years ago... I expect he doesn't remember... it was the weekend of your mother's twenty-first birthday party and he'd just proposed to her..."

"You were there?"

"Indeed I was."

"So you're not... um... a princess?"

"Or a duchess or anything else... just a ranch wife, born and raised not too far from where you live." In Montana reckoning, this could mean anything from two to two hundred miles.

A light bulb came on. "Let me take a wild guess here... you must be Maddy's mother?"

Sally shook her head. "All shall be revealed, but first..." She pointed toward the seating area near the window. "Make yourself comfortable while I change into something more appropriate. Get something to drink from the minibar if you wish... there's bourbon and Coke and plenty of ice."

"It's a little early in the day for me, Mrs... er... I'm sorry... what should I call you?"

"It's Marie-Solánge... but that's such a mouthful everyone just calls me 'Sally'. I apologize for not being ready... I'll be right back... six minutes, tops!" With that she popped in the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Jesse looked around the room, agreeing with Sally's assessment of the decor. _Might as well do as the lady says and get comfortable 'cause there's no woman on earth who can 'change into something more appropriate' in six minutes._

 **He was proven wrong.** No sooner than he'd picked up a magazine from the coffee table— _SWARA_ , published by the East African Wildlife Society—and settled on the faux zebraskin sofa, when she reappeared exactly five minutes later.

Sally'd taken note of Jesse's neatly-pressed bone Ermenegildo Zegna® Zenga Sport™ dress shirt, chocolate brown Perry Ellis® Melange™ double-pleated slacks, JCrew® coffee brown leather car coat and gleaming Gianfranco Ferre® loafers. Jesse stood up and suppressed a chuckle to see that she'd chosen to match his outfit—ecru Thomas Mason® button-down Oxford shirt, caramel Lafaette148® tailored slacks and desert-tan SAS® Viva™ loafers.

"There... now I'm fit to be seen in public with a well-dressed gentleman." She went to the coat closet where Jesse fully expected her to extract a leather jacket like his... not a retro three-quarter-length belted camelhair coat with wide lapels.

"Omigosh!" he blurted out. "Where did you find _that_? My mother had one just like it from before I was born... she loved that coat and wore it until it fell apart! We've been looking ever since for another one."

Sally smoothed down one of the lapels and winked. "This is the real deal, honey... vintage 1971 Pendleton. But I have connections... you find out her coat size when you get home and I guarantee we'll find one for her. Shall we go?" With her coat collar turned up, silk scarf concealing her head and oversize Jackie-O sunglasses, Sally was the epitome of elegant mystery.

 **They left the suite,** taking the lift down and sauntering across the lobby toward the front entrance. Bulging eyeballs and whispered commentary accompanied their progress. The Mystery Princess (or Duchess, depending on who knew what) was making an appearance for the first time in forty-eight hours... on the arm of a gigolo young enough to be her son! A few who happened to recognize the Ross scion nearly ruptured themselves getting to their phones.

The valet brought the Captiva around and, after handing Sally into the passenger seat, Jesse wheeled out of town with the confidence of one who knew exactly where he was going.

"Uh... where are we going?" He asked, glanced at her. "Do you have anything particular in mind?"

"I do, actually... I'm just an old country girl... and that's what I'd like to see—your Dales that I've heard so much about. And if we're still roaming at large come lunchtime, I'd love some off-the-map hole-in-the-wall place that tourists have overlooked."

 **With the cityscape behind them,** Sally asked inconsequential questions about growing up in Yorkshire and made comparisons between the semirural landscape surrounding them and their respective stomping grounds back in the States. For his part, Jesse was bursting with questions having nothing to with the scenery and was hard pressed to keep his curiousity in check.

They followed increasingly narrower roadways meandering northwesterly into the Dales, keeping conversation confined to points of interest along the way. As hours sped by, Jesse realized he was having as good a time as his passenger seemed to be having. As a youngster he'd explored almost every corner of the Dales with other serious hikers but it'd been many years since he'd taken the time to revisit their serene vistas. Disinclined to stop at any of the tawdry tourist traps infesting so many of the tiny villages they passed through, Sally frequently asked him to pull over so that she could contemplate the natural beauty of a placid cloud-reflecting lake, a burn splashing clear as glass over rounded stones, the translucent plume of a waterfall, the fretwork of limestone escarpments.

Eventually Jesse pulled into a small car park adjacent to an undistinguished single-story stone building on a treeless windswept fell. It would have passed for an isolated cattle byre if not for a small handlettered sign beside the blue-painted door identifying it as 'Far Horizon Café'. There were no windows facing the road or the car park.

Any other female might have balked at the prospect of lunching in such a bleak venue, but Sally had faith. Mountain men had an instinct for sussing out the best grub in the most unlikely places... even one whose claim was by adoption rather than birth. And she was right—once inside the door a warm, welcoming atmosphere belied the bleak exterior.

 **To the left of the short entry hall** was an open-plan kitchen separated from the dining area by a long service counter with stools where patrons could sit and converse with the cook while their meals were being prepared. To the right was a taproom, also separated from the larger room by a counter with stools. The entire westfacing wall of the building was floor-to-ceiling plate glass, affording an uninterrupted panoramic view of the national park as far as the eye could see... literally to the far horizon. Ten round tables-—none of them matching—with red-and-white checked cloths were ranged in an uneven line along the glass wall. At either end of the narrow room was a fireplace, laid but not yet lit. Faux kerosene lamps and golden pine paneling lent the room a homey feeling. Everything was scrupulously clean.

"Perfect!" Sally breathed.

A petite rotund woman appeared at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron and grinning from ear to ear. "If you ain't a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Jesse... it's been a right long time since you favored us with your custom."

Jesse bent down and enveloped her in a hug before kissing her cheek. "Believe me, Miss Gussie, if I still lived here I'd be in here three or four nights a week!" Then he straightened up to make introductions. "Miss Augusta Amerson is one of the finest, if not _the_ finest, cook in these here parts!"

Sally smiled back and extended her hand. "Based on the aromas coming out of your kitchen, Miss Amerson, I don't doubt that one bit! My name is Sally and I'm a soon-to-be Ross relative visiting from the States."

"It's 'Gussie' to any Rosses what cross my threshhold!" She beamed and waved toward the dining room. "Choose any place you like. Tuesday lunch is always slow but it'll pick up toward tea time."

"Miss Augusta, Sally and I have some serious family business to discuss in private so we're going to take one of the corner tables. We might need several hours... will that be a problem?"

" **Not a bit. Anyone else comes in,** I'll shoo 'em towards the other corner. If you want the fire lit, help yourself. I know what you want but what would your lady have to drink?"

"Do you still keep a keg of your brother's homebrew hidden back there?"

"Certainly!"

"Would bring us two pints then?"

"For the lady as well?" Miss Gussie lifted an eyebrow. "We do have some fine sherry, you know..."

Sally laughed. "What you see isn't always what you get... I've raised nine children on a cattle farm and most of the time I go around with poo on my boots. I need a real working woman's brew!"

The little woman tittered and went off to fetch their ales while Jesse gave his companion an odd look. "Nine?"

"Nine, yes," Sally confirmed, looking around for a menu. "Madelaine is our youngest. Are there...?"

"Menus? No... Miss Gussie has a set menu for every day of the week, so you get whatever's on offer. The patrons seem to like it that way—it removes the burden of having to make a decision. Most of the clientele are older men on their own and this makes them feel like they're sitting down to a meal in their own kitchens at home."

"Extraordinary!" Sally said. "I'm sure it will be delicious, whatever it is."

'It' turned out to be a starter of hearty cabbage soup with crusty bread rolls and golden butter, followed by pork loin in a thick rich sauce and seasoned oven-roasted potatoes with steamed baby carrots... every bit of it mouth-watering.

"If this is lunch, I can't imagine what's on for dinner!"

"Same thing. Do you want to wait on afters?"

Sally said she'd skip dessert for the time being. Miss Gussie's agreeable moon-faced grandniece Betty'd arrived while they were eating and came to clear away the table. The proprietress sent her back out with a bottle of port and two goblets and instructions to leave the couple alone unless they called for her. Betty ambled away to wait on three retired sheepherders who'd appropriated the far table near the other fireplace.

 **Sally settled back in her chair** and stretched her legs out, ankles neatly crossed. "Now... I suppose one of us should go first. Why don't you begin?"

Her manner invited bluntness. "Why do I get the feeling I've been set up?"

"Because you were... very blatantly so. Elayne thought we needed to talk... privately."

"Did she? How long have you known Elayne?"

"All my life. We're related through my mother's line way back... I suppose she's really a cousin but I've always thought of her as a favorite aunt. Yours too, as I understand. Small world, huh?" They both chuckled.

"And you met my parents in 1974?"

"Or 2010... depending on how you look at it and how much you're willing to believe."

"I'm sorry… I don't quite follow. I can understand Elayne's being here... she's been like an older sister to Mom for as long as I can remember... but why, exactly, are _you_ here?"

"Elayne's here for the anniversary event, naturally, but then this problem came up and I've come along to help fix it."

"Which problem might that be?" Jesse asked with a sour look. "My mom and dad having hallucinations or my dad having a bastard kid fall out of the woodwork... or my daughter wanting to marry _his_ bastard kid? I'm assuming you must know all about _that_."

After a moment's pause he spread his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry. I apologize for that. We think a great deal of Rowan... he's a nice boy and none of this is his fault."

"The children's relationship is not troublesome from our—the family's—perspective. We would of course prefer that they wait awhile before they embark on marriage... I'm sure you agree with us there."

"You got that right!"

 **Sally sensed belligerence simmering** on a back boiler, that he was nearing the end of his tether. Jesse wasn't near as laid-back as Elayne would have her believe and she'd have to tread carefully here. "Your newly discovered half-brother isn't our focus, either... although that certainly contributes to the confusion... it's your parents and what they're remembering about the week they got engaged."

"What about it? Dad asked her. She said yes. End of story."

"If only it were that simple," Sally sighed. "Think about this... do you remember _ever_ hearing stories about that week... how or where they became engaged or the circumstances leading up to it?"

"Well... no... not that I recall," Jesse had to admit. "Kinda strange, now that you mention it... but that's more of a girl thing, isn't it? I mean, Mom might've told my sisters but Dad never said anything to me or Mike. What's that got to do with what's happening here and now?"

Sally retrieved a small brown book from her handbag and gently placed it on the table between them. Jesse picked it up and flipped it open to reveal a worn spiral-bound notebook—the leather casing was merely a protective cover. "What's this?"

"It's a journal about that week. I'd like you to read it."

"What? Here... now? Who wrote it?"

"It won't take long... not even an hour. Afterwards I'll answer your questions. In the meantime, I'll go see if I can be of assistance to Miss Gussie and maybe charm her out of some secret recipes." Sally elegantly lofted herself from her chair, gliding toward the kitchen and leaving Jesse with a handwritten piece of history dated November 1974.

 **The journal covered a period** of little more than one week. From time to time Jesse tore his attention away from the pages to see Sally and the diminutive cook weaving around each other and chatting away as though they'd been old friends for years. When he'd reached the last page and looked up, it was to find the dining room packed full of oldsters, men and women, enjoying their tea. Sally, wearing a brightly striped pinny, was happily rolling a cart laden with an assortment of baked goods along the line of tables and laughing with the customers. When he made eye contact she turned the cart over to Betty, stripped off the apron and returned to her seat.

"So? What do you think? A concise analysis to begin with..."

Jesse hesitated, unwilling to give offense. "Whoever wrote it must've been on some heavy duty drugs. The whole premise—time travel, witches, shapeshifters... well, it makes for interesting fantasy fiction but it's... um... pretty far out."

"It is, isn't it?" Sally agreed.

"Those character analyses, on the other hand... those are pretty scary." Jesse shivered. "A lot of it is stuff I already knew about my parents but the rest—if it's true... I'd no idea."

"Oh... it's a true first-hand accounting, all right. I imagine you have a question or three..."

Jesse rolled his eyes. "Let's just say I'm prepared to listen if you're prepared to overlook my skepticism."

"Fair enough," Sally acceded. "Although the fact that you're _willing_ to listen indicates to me that you feel there's something to be found out... that something troubles you about your parents' past and you're curious, yes?"

"Yes, of course. I didn't find anything that sheds light on what's going on in their heads today, though. What's the connection—assuming there is one?"

"That's the part even I didn't know about until last week, so it's not there. Neither did you find anything about Rowan's father because—let me clarify here—in 1974, Elayne and I were unaware of his existence. We _should_ have known, but we _didn't_ , just as in 2010 we _should_ have been aware that Rowan's father was that same child, grown up... but, again, that got by us. We witches may be clairvoyant but we're not omniscient!"

"Excuse me... but did you just say 'witches'? As in... um... _witches?_ "

"Why, yes... I did. Elayne and I are both witches."

 **When Jesse blinked a few times** but otherwise showed no surprise, Sally cocked her head at him. "Frankly, I was expecting some sort of reaction..."

Jesse nodded thoughtfully, "Under any other circumstances you'd have got one but..."

Sally interrupted him. "This would probably be a good time to give other diners a chance. We can carry on once we're back in the car. I've already settled the bill. Who would've thought to find a five-star café out here in the wild?"

They thanked Miss Gussie effusively and went out to the car park where another dozen people strolled around the lot, smoking and visiting while waiting for a table or counter stool to open up.

"How close are we to sunset?"

"About another hour."

"I'd really like to see the sun go down over those hills. Could we move to an unoccupied hilltop and watch it?"

"If you'd like... but it gets chilly really fast up here. I think Mom keeps some emergency rugs in the boot. And we missed dessert."

Sally nodded her head toward the wicker basket she was carrying, which Jesse hadn't noticed. "Not to worry... I've got slices of Miss Gussie's Dutch apple pie all nicely wrapped up on plastic plates and two bottles of homemade wine—elderberry and plum—and some plastic cups. She said you can return the basket and bottles whenever it's convenient. Of course, if you're expected home..."

"Not especially."

 **Another two miles down the road** curving along the ridgetop brought them to a scenic overlook with a single concrete table and benches backed by a semicircle of dry stone wall that deflected most of the constant wind. Jesse folded up one rug to form a seating pad on the table top where they could perch with their feet resting on the bench. A second one went around their shoulders as they huddled together, the only sounds being the susurrus of the wind and the occasional scree of a hawk circling overhead.

Sally waited patiently for Jesse to continue his commentary on the journal. Instead, he talked about something else...

"I was thirteen, I think, when Dad and I had the, you know... the father-son talk. We didn't talk about women and relationships again until I was twenty-one. I left for the States when I was eighteen and didn't go home for three years—we had a major disagreement, he and I... long story I won't go into now. But I when I did go, it was when I took Vonda—Yvonne, my wife—to meet my family soon after we got married.

"Dad and I went for a ride, just the two of us and we stopped at the top of a hill just like this one. He did all the talking, which was kinda like the Sphinx coming to life. It was more of a cross between a lecture and a really long anecdote. I think he was trying to tell me that he hoped I was absolutely certain she was the right woman for me and even more importantly that I was the right man for her. The gist of it was, he'd never intended to marry Mom... he loved her, but the differences between them were too great and they'd nothing in common but their love of horses. I asked him, 'Why did you, then?' and he said, 'I don't know... suddenly I was afraid of being alone... of being left behind.' I said, 'That was pretty damned selfish of you, wasn't it?' And he said that yes, he knew that."

"Did he ever say he regretted having married your mother?"

"Not to me he didn't... but they yelled it at each other all the time. You wouldn't believe how they used to fight when I was little. Our house was like a war zone for years. Many times I'd take Jules and we'd go hide in the stables, up in Dad's old loft where he used to sleep, until it was over. Slugger... you know who he was?..."

"Yes... I met him. I was here, remember?"

"Oh... yeah... well, Slugger and Dottie... we call her 'DoDo' because Dorothy was too hard for little kids to pronounce... they'd cover for us, sometimes overnight if it was an especially bad row."

"But you survived?"

"Yeah. They mellowed out after the twins were born and Dad started traveling."

"I imagine you've questioned—since you became an adult—if they really did... do... love each other?"

 **There was a long period of silence.**

"I'd sometimes wonder what kept them together... if maybe he only stayed because of Mom's money. There wasn't any question she was nuts about him. Always has been. But then, you know, I got busy with my own family and didn't have time to worry so much about them anymore. I remember telling Dad we were gonna be different... we'd married for love and we'd never butt heads like they did." Jesse rolled his eyes, chuckling. "Sure had a lot to learn, didn't I?"

"Didn't we all," Sally replied. "What do you believe about their relationship now, Jesse?"

"Oh... I think they really do love each other... but... maybe it's not... equal? Like, she's always loved him unconditionally and he's always held back a tiny fraction? Like maybe he's afraid of loving her too much? Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely." Sally grinned. "Usually this is something you have to be married thirty or forty years or more before you get it, but no aspect of a relationship is ever a neat fifty-fifty. It's an ongoing give and take, and the longer you're with someone the more flexible you learn to become. You have to. The other thing you learn is that it's impossible to maintain a committed monogamous relationship without having disagreements and differences of opinions... or moods, or wants or needs. It just doesn't happen that way."

" **I asked Mom just the other day** if she'd ever thought about leaving Dad, if he'd ever done something or _could_ do anything that could make her that angry. She said no... but... I wish I understood what the hell is going on with her... with both of them... then maybe I could..."

Jesse slowly turned his face to look directly at Sally and something in her face must have given her away. "Could you please explain to me how what's happening now relates to all the crazy stuff that's in that book? That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so..." His companion was gazing out to the far off distance where wisps of cirrus obscured the tops of the higher hills. "Say you've lived here all your life, have never ventured beyond these hills... this would be your known world, your reality... you don't _know_ what if anything lies beyond the horizon and you don't especially _care_ , because you're happy with what you _do_ know."

"I'm not sure I follow..."

"Then one day you meet someone from 'over there'—we'll call that place the 'Otherworld'—who presents you with an extraordinary story and extravagant claims far outside your comfort level. At first you reject what you're hearing, then... as otherwise unexplained evidence begins to mount up... you start to think _what if?_ After all, you've got this flesh-and-blood entity sitting right here next to you saying, _'Hello. I'm Sally and I'm a witch. Oh... and guess what?... your daughter is going to marry my grandson and eventually they might produce little witches and warlocks and possibly a shapeshifter or two.'_ If you're already fortified with a pile of _what ifs_ , it makes acceptance of all this a little easier. That's why I wanted you to read the journal first."

 **Jesse was studying her** with a disbelieving though amused expression. "Shapeshifter?"

"It's possible."

"So what you're telling me is, you really are... a witch?"

"Yes, and a jolly good one, too. So is Dottie and so is Elayne. Hazel never finished her training but can pick back up anytime she wants."

Jesse gave this a few minutes of contemplation. Sally could visualize gears whirring and clicking into place.

"I'm not ready to swallow this hook, line and sinker, but... yesterday morning when Mom and I were talking to the farm manager, that's what he'd just told us—about DoDo and Aunt Elayne being witches... and that's when Mom crashed and burned. Is this something she's never known... or something she might have known once and forgotten about?"

"Boo explained it to her at the time and she seemed to accept it... most of it, anyway. He's very good at what he does, quite persuasive. That's why we sent him."

"Right. Who's Boo?"

"Bernard, my husband, whose journal you just read. He's holds a doctorate in behavioral theory and alternative therapies."

"He's the one my dad tried to kill..."

"It was a misunderstanding..."

"Twice."

"Oh... I don't believe he would have gone _that_ far..."

"Who gave MY mother her first kiss..."

"It was in the line of duty."

"Who changes into a horse."

"Not so much anymore... it's physically very taxing, you know, and he _is_ getting on."

"Here comes my nineteenth nervous breakdown," Jesse groaned.

" **You're a Stones fan?"**

"My father-in-law owned every LP ever cut by every American, British and Australian rock group on the planet from 1964 on... thousands of them! We lived with him... or he lived with us. Twelve years and that's all we ever heard..."

"So I take it you're rocked out?" Sally said.

"No. Unfortunately, I'm addicted. I'm paying my sixteen-year-old's boyfriend to convert them to mp3s. He'll be a senior in college before he's done."

"Cool!"

"So—getting back—you sent your husband here in 1974?"

"In 2010, actually... but... I'll explain about that later. There's much more to the story than what's actually recorded in the journal, things he told me about that I can tell you... again, later, if you wish."

"Why?"

"Why later? Why not now?"

"No... why was he sent in the first place?"

"Because—as you've just read—if he hadn't gone, or if he hadn't succeeded in his mission, your parents would never have married, you and your siblings would never have been born, my grandson wouldn't have had a future wife to meet, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I see," said Jesse, who didn't. "Right now what I'm imagining is how I'm going to explain this to my wife. She'll love it, though... this is right up her alley!"

" **Actually, Madelaine's taking care of that,"** Sally said. "She's going to bring her on board while they're flying out here."

"And Pallas... does she know about this?"

"Pallas is Rowan's reponsibility... that is, it's his responsibility to do the explaining, if he hasn't done so already."

"That might be a deal-breaker, you know. She's pretty much a straight-shooter and won't put up with any foolishness."

"I guess that remains to be seen."

"Here's a question... Uncle Ron's the biggest storyteller around and I can't believe he would've passed on a whopper like this one. If all this really went down the way it's written, why is it no one remembers any of it or hasn't ever mentioned anything to any of us kids?"

"That brings us to the crux of the matter... which is, they _couldn't_ remember. Elayne put a memory blocking spell on all of them... for their own protection. It was supposed to be a _forever_ spell but it's proven defective. Their memories are coming back in pieces and out of context and causing a great deal of distress, particularly to your mother. That's what we have to fix. Elayne, Dorothy, Hazel and I have the power to restore her memories in proper order and help her interpret them correctly, but we can only do this in concert... and privately, which means we have to find a way to distract your father long enough to do our thing."

"So... you're saying you need access to my mother in order to put her under another spell?"

"No... no... absolutely not. The idea is to _remove_ any spell remnants, to remove all disquiet from her being so she can be rational again and stop believing she's losing her mind. We have rituals for this. See, she's already 'remembered', wrongly, that witchcraft was used on your father to make him marry her."

"Well, wasn't it?"

"Only indirectly... to set the stage and provide the props. Bernard was our big gun... the coach who guided the team to victory. Everything that led to your father's proposal and your mother's acceptance they did all by themselves, because they wanted to. No one was coerced, no one was cheated, no one was physically damaged—not much, anyway—and everyone went happily on with their lives. The problem now is that she feels a moral obligation to confess this to your father... You can see where this is going, can't you?"

"He'll bundle her off for a psychiatric evaluation."

"Precisely... and we don't want that."

"What about Dad... won't you need to do your thing with him, too?"

"We think not... he never knew anything about craft involvement then and he doesn't need to know now. Once your mother has her head on straight again she can lay out the facts for him... only the actual facts, mind you... and he'll be fine. Unless of course he starts thinking he's the one who's going batty... and we don't want that, either... why are you looking at me like that?"

" **I'm thinking."**

"About what?"

"First of all, I can't believe I'm even having this conversation... and second, I'm thinking about how to get Dad away from the house long enough."

"So you'll help us?"

"I don't seem to have much of a choice. It's not something _medical_ science can cope with," Jesse said drily, "and I sure don't want my mother locked up in a cookie ward somewhere. How soon can you do this... uh... _thing?_ How involved is it?"

"Well, let's see... tomorrow night would be good. There's a waxing crescent moon so we could hold a regular esbat if we can round up eight more witches for a quorum. We need to be outdoors, preferably near a body of water, and we'll need a large enough open space for a bonfire—just a little one will do. We must be assured of privacy..."

"Being out at night isn't gonna work... can't you do this in daytime?"

"Yes... daytime circles don't have quite the same ambiance but we can make do, I'm sure. Two to three hours should be sufficient. Why?"

"Let me run an idea by you. If you think it's doable, you can take it to Elayne and start thinking how you're gonna get Mom out of the house to the... wherever. I'll work on a plan for Dad for tomorrow afternoon. Timing's gonna be tricky."

"Oh Jesse... this is way more than I'd hoped for!"

"If it works, that'll be one less thing for me to worry about. There's still that other business with... I suppose I should start referring to him by name, since he's my half-brother. Hopefully once that's out in the open the dust will have cleared by party day."

"Except... there's more..."

" _More_ complications, you mean? How could it possibly get any worse?"

"Things can _always_ get worse, my boy."

 **CATCHING UP**

 _ **Later on that evening...**_ "Where the heck have YOU been!" Elayne, already bathed and in her silk pajamas, was curled up with a magazine on the zebra skin-upholstered sofa when Sally rolled in.

"If you were that worried, you could have called."

"Tried. It went to voicemail."

"Then we were probably outside of transmission range."

"Just how far _did_ you go?" Elayne leered.

"As far as we needed to, you nosy old hag, and you can just go double-entendre yourself!"

"No need for crudeness, dear!"

"What are you doing back here, anyway? I thought you were staying at the farm?"

"I tole Dora it wouldn't be too nice a me to abandon my friend an' that I'd just as soon stay here. Besides she's already got a full house what's gonna get fuller right quick."

"I have some interesting news. Give me a few minutes to shower and then we'll get together and compare notes. Is it too late for room service? I could do with some tea."

 **Apparently room service operated** around the clock for presidential suite occupants; the trolley'd already been delivered by the time Sally padded back into the lounge enveloped in one of the hotel's plush velour robes.

"So how did you _make out_ with Jesse?"

Sally rolled her eyes. "Quit being such a dirty old lady. And for the record... if I was going to take a lover, I'd go for the tree, not the shrub."

"What, you don't think Jesse's as hunky as his daddy?"

"Sure... but Steve is... Steve. What more can I say? Anyway, neither one's available and I'm not in the market."

"You know... back in the day, if I'd had a chance with Steve, I wouldn't a minded..."

"Don't even go there, Elayne. He's much too young for you and not near rich enough." Sally went on to describe the drive in the country, the quaint little restaurant at the end of the universe, the tête-à-tête on the barren hilltop, the beauty of the sunset, having wine and pie by flashlight...

"Until a constable came along... some kind of park ranger, I think... and told us we had to move on," Sally concluded.

"Woohoo... I can just imagine what _he_ thought y'all was up to!" Elayne crowed.

"You have a filthy mind, you wretched old woman. I'm old enough to be his granny!"

"I may be old but I ain't dead yet. Did you tell him about... us?"

"I did, yes. It was a lot to expect him to take in but he's so busy grasping at straws right now that any solution, no matter how far-fetched, is looking good."

"So what'd he have to say about the journal?"

"Well, you'd expect him to need more than a few grains of salt, wouldn't you? He conceded that everything he's witnessed so far ties in with what I told him. There was a bit of an ick factor to overcome—no one really wants to dwell on their parents'... um... love lives any more than they want to know about their children's. He seems optimistic that Yvonne's going to understand and go along with whatever program we devise."

Elayne nodded her head affirmatively. "Just like I said! That Yvonne's got a healthy streak a the fantastical in her—lookit what she named all them gals! So what's this here interesting news you mentioned?"

"Oh... we came up with a plan—Jesse's idea, actually."

"Do tell!"

 **Elayne listened attentively** and agreed it was a very good plan indeed... better than anything they'd thought of so far as long as Steve could be got out of the way.

"Jesse's confident he can arrange that, with Hazel's help," Sally said.

"And I'll call Dot first thing in the morning so she can get started on her part."

"How was the rest of your day, Elle, after Dora left?"

"That girl came back an' we tol' her everythin', her bein' mostly one a us anyway. She knew we was watchin her an' Dora the other night. She's got the Sight. Ain't that somethin'? Tolja there was more to her than meets the eye."

"Are you sure she didn't recognize the strangers in the fortune?"

"Don't reckon so... seemed a mite agitated, even. Then she went back in the house, Hazel went on home, an' I cotched me a couple a zzz's on Dottie's sofa while she watched soap operas. Time I woke up, it was suppertime an' the whole gang was there, 'ceptin' Jesse, of course."

"Where was Steve the rest of the afternoon?"

"Near as I could tell, holed up in his study. Didn't have much to say at the table, just kept watchin' Dora like it was the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her."

"Anything else of interest?"

"Let's see, Michael an' Trini insisted on drivin' me back here instead a me callin' for the limo. Michael's all wound up on account of that story goin' round 'bout his dad an' his Uncle Ron bein' in that gay bar the other night. Trini thinks it don't mean anythin' but Michael... well, I get the impression he almost wishes it was true, 'cause then maybe he'd get more sympathy an' respect from his father. 'Course, I don't believe it my own self."

"Sheesh! We don't need that aggravation on top of everything else!"

"Oh... an' on the way in I was accosted by that nitwit Fish Fotheringill-Thwaite. She couldn't wait to tell me about Steve Ross havin' an affair with my guest, Duchess Thing... she saw 'em with her very own eyes strollin' out together arm-in-arm, bold as you please! An' how she took it upon herself to call Dora Ross straightaway..."

"How could she mistake Jesse for Steve?"

"Myopic old biddy... too vain to wear her specs in public!"

Sally couldn't help but laugh. "Maybe that rumor will counterbalance the other one!"

"Anyways, Violet intercepted the phone call an' gave the old besom what for!"

"Good for her!"

"Dottie was listening in and she said after she hung up she was laughing so hard she wet herself. Says that girl's a treasure."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter 21:**_ **GETTING STARTED**

 **Wednesday, November 19th…** The limo bearing Elayne and Sally rolled to a stately halt just outside Hollin Hall an hour before the Visitor Centre was scheduled to open. The keepers'd already finished breakfast and were out in the barns. After introducing Sally to Blair Statham, Elayne got straight to the point, there being no reason to mince words—his mother and grandmother both having been members of Elayne's coven from the time she lived there.

In the South Barn Elayne asked which of the elderly horses were currently serving as mounts for Dora and Steve. Hector and Otto were pointed out to her. Sally distracted Statham, who'd always had an admiring eye for an attractive lady no matter her age, while Elayne lagged behind for a few minutes conversing with the two old horses and stroking their noses. Sally casually asked Statham if they'd any other rideable ones in case she and Elayne were invited along today.

"Well, we have Jinx and Lucy... they haven't been ridden in a good long while but they probably wouldn't offer much trouble... or there's Halfpenny... more of a pony but Miz Elayne is small and light enough for him." Enthralled with the presence of nobility (having been forewarned by his nephew Conrad/Connie), he didn't notice Elayne stopping for a chat with those animals as well.

With the inspection of the barns concluded, Elayne thanked Blair warmly and said they'd be going up to the Big House now. Taking the limo up to the house car park, she dismissed the driver for the day. Sally followed her into the garage and through the door to the hallway. In the kitchen she was introduced to Vera Barton and Elayne explained about the 'Miz Bees', which Sally found amusing. Miz Bee allowed as how Missus Dora, Missus Dottie and that Violet were in the former's study with the door closed.

Retreating the way they'd come, Elayne knocked on the door to Dora's study and opened it. Three faces looked up as the new arrivals halted in the doorway, Elayne's gaze sweeping the mess in surprise.

" **Goodgoogledygoo... what's all this?!"** Dora, Dottie and Violet were ranged around a large worktable occupying the center of the room and covered in piles and rows of photographs, stacks of colorfully patterned twelve inch by twelve inch squares of paper, small clear plastic boxes of doodads and gewgaws, spools of ribbon and dozens of arcane little tools. Large plastic boxes scattered over the floor looked to be full of more photographs. Dora got up and came over to embrace her friend.

"My new hobby... scrapbooking! It's all the rage these days and I've been meaning to get all these pictures into albums for years!" Her questioning eyes went past Elayne's shoulder to the other woman standing just outside the door.

"Allow me to introduce my niece and travelling companion, Sally Passepartout..."

"Ah! The mysterious duchess! How very lovely to meet you, Sally... I'm Dora... won't you come in? There's two more chairs around here somewhere..."

Violet was introduced and Dottie admitted that she'd already met Sally yesterday when she'd gone up to see Elayne at the hotel, although she hadn't yet got around to explaining just _why_ she'd gone on her own—without Dora—in the first place. Chairs were pulled up and space made at the table for them. Dora went to the intercom and asked Miz Bee to bring up refreshments for five, both tea and coffee.

"When did you start this?" Elayne asked curiously.

"Oh... a while back... and then I put it away and never got back to it. But I thought I might as well make the most of my confinement and Steve couldn't find any complaint against it. I'm up to late 1974... birthday and wedding pictures and so on." Elayne noted that Dora was looking quite rested and refreshed and was obviously in a chatty mood.

"Too bad there ain't more of the three years at Follyfoot before you married Steve," Elayne offered lightly.

"I know. It's a shame... but we were so poor and didn't have a camera... in fact, our first one was a wedding present."

"I know... I gave it to you!"

"So you did... oh look... here's a really good group shot taken at my twenty-first birthday party..."

 **In the photo were three couples:** Slugger and Dottie, Steve and Dora in the middle, and Ron and Hazel on their other side. Other people were in the photo also, standing at the rear, but slightly out of focus. Dora passed the picture around and Sally recognized herself at the periphery but made no comment as she passed it on to Violet. Violet in turn stared at it for a long time before glancing at Sally and wordlessly handing it to Dottie. Sally gave her an almost imperceptible nod to indicate she wasn't to say anything.

There were several dozen birthday party photos, mostly posed, but also many candid shots taken by a roving photographer. Dora shuffled through these, asking Elayne's advice on which to set aside for insertion in an album and which could be disposed of. Elayne's suggestion was that if she couldn't remember the individuals in the picture, it should go in the discard box and Dora agreed.

About midway through the shuffling, Dora lingered over one particular shot which'd Steve in it but he was mostly obscured by a woman standing next to him, so it went in the box. She'd just about reached the end of the birthday pictures when she suddenly froze... and so did the other four.

"Wait a minute!" Bending over she rummaged through the discards until she found the one she wanted, which she reexamined intently. Looked up at Sally, back at the photo, back at Sally.

"I know you!" she said firmly, holding up the photo. "This _is_ you, isn't it? You were there... and at the farmhouse, too... the day... the day..." Her face clouded. "I don't remember why, but you were there."

Sally smiled innocently. "I was wondering when or if you'd recognize me."

"Yes... yes... I remember now... you brought two girls to watch the farm and look after the horses the day of the party... twins, weren't they? Your sisters or something? And you helped us get ready that day... me, Hazel, Dorothy! You did our hair and makeup and everything!"

"That was me, all right."

"Oh my goodness... after all these years... what a wonderful surprise! Are you staying for our anniversary celebration? Oh please say you will? Steve'll be ever so surprised and pleased himself!" Dora was bubbling over with enthusiasm. Violet tensed, ready to pounce and drag her charge off to her bedroom should it turn to hysteria... but Dora seemed genuinely happy.

"I'd love to help you celebrate your anniversary, Dora."

Miz Bee and Estelle staggered in with trays of tea and coffee and biscuits fresh from the oven even though breakfast was barely over with. Lunch arrangements were made and the ladies resumed their chatter.

" **You're not riding with Steve this morning?"** Elayne inquired delicately, hoping he wasn't—that would solve one problem: how to get him out of the way.

"No... not today," Dora said with a tinge of disappointment. "Jesse wants to have some 'quality time,' as he calls it, with his father and I'm all in favor of encouraging that! They're off to look at that boat they didn't get around to seeing on Sunday."

"Hazel's not coming today?"

"She teaches a seniors' water aerobics class on Tuesday mornings... over at the Tockwith Community Centre. But she said she would come for lunch."

"Maybe afterwards we could all go for a ladies' only hack... whaddya say? Just like the old days!"

Dora chuckled. "That would be fun... if my minder allows it." She nodded toward Violet.

"You're meant to be having a nap after lunch," Violet reminded her, "Not open to negotiation. Then one hour only on the trail, and not too far away. And I have to go with. The others can hang out at the pool for an hour or have a siesta themselves if they wish. Do we have a deal?"

"Little better than nothing," Dora grumbled. "But I'll take it."

"Good. 'Cause it's non-negotiable!"

 _ **POOLSIDE AT HOLLIN HALL**_

 **Elayne and Sally'd brought bathing suits** with them but hadn't bothered to change into them, in observance of the post-lunch non-swimming hour and in anticipation of riding later. Sally'd scandalized Miz Bee by requesting well-sugared tea poured over a pitcher of ice and garnished with lemon wedges and a few sprigs of mint from the kitchen garden. Nothing that Miz Bee hadn't encountered before, whenever the American contingent were visiting... still... how abysmally uncivilized! They'd settled into lounge chairs by the pool, killing two birds with one stone by staying out of the cleaning team's way—it was one of their regularly scheduled days—and having a place to converse without being overheard. Dottie, who normally would have gone off in her electric cart to visit Queen Maude, decided to wait with them until Dora was allowed to get up, then they'd all go down to the farm together.

Elayne led the discussion, which concerned their planned 'kidnapping' of Dora and piecing her memory back together. Everyone had a differing opinion as to the best approach.

Violet was doubtful. "What if she gets really upset?"

"I had an idea last night," Elayne proclaimed. "We'll ride down to the clootie well and go skinny-dipping. I'll get Blair to set a guard so no one can sneak up on us!"

"It's November," Violet said pointedly. "It's cold. Are you nuts? And what's on earth's a clootie well?"


	22. Chapter 22

_**Chapter 22: ON THE ROAD AGAIN**_

 **By prior arrangement,** Steve and Jesse'd departed directly after breakfast to pick up Ron and make another sortie to Kingston to see about the boat Ron was interested in. Ron was ready to go when Steve pulled up in his drive and bounced into the back seat with his signature good cheer after shoving in a foam cooler.

"Don't tell me... let me guess... beer?" Jesse grinned.

"For me and you... driver don't get any until we stop."

On the road Jesse got a full accounting of the previous aborted trip and a belly laugh over the description, alternately contributed by his father and uncle, of how they'd fetched up in the gay biker bar. He'd known Lewis Hammond and his floozy wife Wendy since childhood and shared his parents' as well as a good many other folks' low opinion of the couple. He'd heard the ugly stories of Hammond's youthful involvement in the infamous Night Rider gang and, of course, had attended school along with Lewis' sons—braggarts and bullies of the same stripe.

They took turns trading yarns and remembrances. Steve was in an upbeat mood for a change. "Dora looks good today," he addressed Ron in the rear view mirror, "not ill in any way I can see. Maybe Dr. Sheffield was a little overboard... or maybe it was just me overreacting."

Ron sat silently for a few minutes before speaking soberly. "When are you planning on telling her, mate?"

"Don't you start now! I've already had a ration this morning from the boy, here!"

"Then you'd best be finding yourself a big kennel to crawl into, old sod, for when all hell breaks loose!" Ron predicted, folding his arms and sitting back in his seat. "And make sure it's big enough for two," he muttered, "I reckon I'll be joining you there when Hazel finds out I knew and didn't tell her!"

Jesse added glumly, "Might as well count me in. It'll be a three-dog night for sure when Vonda gets through with me. It'll be all my fault for not getting the job done and seeing to it that Mom knows all before she and the girls get here."

"It's my business and I'll take care of it when I'm good and damned ready. Now change the subject."

" **Witches," Jesse stated flatly.**

"Pardon?" Steve spared him a puzzled glance.

"Aunt Elayne, Aunt Hazel and DoDo... they're all witches. Did you know about that?"

"Have you lost your mind?"

Jesse pressed on determinedly. "Nope. You didn't ask where I was all day yesterday and why I wasn't home for supper. Weren't you curious?"

"Nope. Not my business. You're a grown man."

"Well, _I'm_ interested!" Ron piped up from the back seat.

"That's because you're such a nosy parker and always stirring up trouble." Steve gave Ron the hairy eyeball in the mirror.

"Oh yeah? Well I've got a right to know why yon Master Jesse is referring to my wife as a witch... unless his nose wants meeting with my fist!"

"Hah! You think you can take on my son? He'd squash you like a bug, just like I..."

"If you two little boys can quit quarreling in the sandbox, I'll tell you," Jesse interjected loudly.

The two fell silent.

"Go on, then," Steve finally grunted.

"Aunt Elayne brought a friend with her... a relative, actually... and she asked if I'd escort the lady to lunch and then show her the sights. I took her to the Far Horizon and we ended up watching the sun go down in the Dales. We talked and she let me read a little journal that her husband'd kept when he visited here in the 70s..." Jesse embarked on a highly editorialized and encapsulated version of the recorded events.

Steve shook his head every now and then, remarking that what he was hearing seemed vaguely familiar but that he really didn't remember it that clearly. And anyway, what a load of rubbish! Witchcraft indeed! Just because he couldn't recall what happened over forty years ago didn't mean he'd been under some kind of silly spell! It was too ridiculous to even consider. And what did it have to do with his current problem?

" **Nothing, Dad. Nothing at all.** But that's what's wrong with Mom... these flashbacks have her convinced that witchcraft was used to get you to marry her."

"But that's absurd!" Steve cried vehemently. "I love your mother... she knows that..."

"You yourself admitted you'd made up your mind you couldn't marry her... but then something happened to change your mind, obviously. How do you explain that?"

Steve was fumbling. "Well... I can't. I honestly don't remember... just that I did."

Ron spoke up from the back seat. "Your dad's been having those flashbacks, too. That's why we never made it to see the boat the other day. Had a bad 'un, he did. And not only that... I've had 'em myself."

"Shut up, Ron!"

"Pull over!" Jesse instructed tersely.

"What?"

"Not again!" Ron moaned. "We'll never get there!"

"Yes we will. At the next lay-by... pull over."

Steve stopped at the next one. Jesse got out of the Rover and walked around to the driver's side.

"Get out and swap seats. I'm driving."

Steve didn't know whether to be angry or amused, but he did as told. Pulling a folded paper out of his shirt pocket, Jesse handed it to his father before pulling back on the road.

"What's this?"

"Sally... that's the lady's name... Sally said they're memory joggers. We want you to read each of the twenty statements and questions carefully and then think about it. Let Uncle Ron read over your shoulder and you tell each other if anything rings a bell. I'm going to stop talking now and concentrate on driving."

 **In light of his being no longer accustomed** to driving on the left-hand side of the road, Jesse was drove conscientiously and kept well below the speed limit. As a result, a jaunt which should have taken an hour and fifteen minutes stretched into two. Steve and Ron were thoroughly engrossed in the list, oblivious to the passing miles as they argued and debated the verity of what each was claiming to remember. Sally'd advised that this was the way memory recovery usually happened... not all at once in a single tidal wave of recall, but a gradual unfolding of scenes that an amnesiac would eventually be able to stitch together as a related chain of events.

By the time the Rover reached the suburbs of Hull, a mosaic of the Lost Week was starting to take shape. In the heavier inner city traffic it was nigh impossible to refer to MapQuest® printouts or even pay too much attention to the Garmin® Zūmo 220™ GPS suctioned to the windscreen. At length Jesse had to interrupt the pair of memory miners to ask for navigation assistance.

As it was off-season, there were plenty of spaces available in the marina's car park close to the office, where the trio obtained visitor passes and a guide in the form of a strapping Scandinavian-looking lad with sunbleached dreadlocks both on his head and his chin. "Eric the Rastafarian Mariner," he introduced himself in an unmistakably American surfer-dude accent, adding, "Norcal, not Norway." He flashed a mouthful of lighthouse-bright teeth in a bronzed face before motioning them away from the rows of berths toward the dry-dock area.

 **The 'Gloria Dei' was a Birchwood thirty-three footer,** launched in 1979 and currently cradled for hull scraping and minor maintenance, well worth the asking price of £23,244 GBP according to Eric. "The old girl's been kept up pretty good, considering her age. Got a cosmetic makeover last year and the diesels completely overhauled two years ago..." Eric continued his spiel as he borrowed a set of rolling stairs from nearby, occasioning a string of curses from the paintbrush-brandishing workmen now stranded on the deck of the boat in the next cradle. Ron and Steve followed him up for an inspection tour.

Coming from a land-locked state and having little use for watercraft, Jesse stayed on the tarmac below, sitting on the bottom step of the rolling stairs. Absentmindedly taking in the dozens of other boats in the yard in various stages of treatment from restoration to decommissioning, he compared his plight to being adrift in a leaky life raft on a roiling sea of family turmoil. Time was a-wasting and Eric's white-blonde hair reminded him of his wife and daughters, whom he was missing terribly.

An hour passed as, up top, Ron meticulously investigated every detail of the cabin cruiser with Steve, who knew next to nothing about boats, trailing behind. Jesse, who knew even less than that, wandered about the yard looking up at one hull after another. From his vantage point, they pretty much looked all the same. He found himself wishing for a fag... or better yet, a joint. Eric the Rastafarian Mariner looked the sort who'd be a source of prime ganja.

 **Eventually the trio descended the ladder,** Eric and Ron still exchanging opinions on the suitability of the 'Gloria Dei.' Ron and Steve said they'd like to come back at a later time when she was back in the water, when they could bring their wives and take the boat out for a test drive. As they drifted back toward the gate and the office, Eric asked if they'd be interested in looking at another boat that wasn't yet on the market but would be soon. He led them through another set of gates onto a dock close to the office and all the way to the last slip where a dazzling white thirty-five foot Sunseeker® San Remo™ lay moored. She was a real beauty with all the bells and whistles lacking on the Birchwood. Ron's eyes lit up appreciatively. "Can we go aboard?"

"Sure thing!" Eric hopped up the short gangplank and fished a key ring from the pocket of his shorts.

"The owner won't mind?" Steve asked nervously.

"Not at all," Eric said, grinning widely, " 'Cause she's mine." He went on to explain that he'd inherited the vessel from his Norwegian grandfather, who'd bought it new in 1988 directly from the factory in Poole. "A generous gesture on his part but realistically, as much as I'd like to keep her, there's no way I can afford the upkeep or even to get her back home to the States. Besides, I'm getting married in the spring so I gotta go home pretty soon and we need the money for other things... like a down payment on a house."

 **Steve could tell Ron'd been instantly smitten** the minute he'd laid eyes on the stylish craft. By the time they'd concluded their inspection, Ron had his mind made up, whether or not Steve wanted to go halfsies on the purchase. Eric produced paperwork proving ownership and showing an appraised value of £38,000 GBP. "But I'd be willing to drop it a lot... a whole lot... if you can pay cash and we don't have to go through a financing hassle."

After a brief interval of gentlemanly haggling, a deal was struck and Ron wrote a check for the binder. They shook hands and Ron and Steve exited the cabin first, leaving Jesse to make his own surreptitious deal with the young Viking, who was indeed the usual sort of suspect and just happened to have on hand a couple of baggies of guaranteed finest-kind skunk and rolling papers.

As they were walking back up the dock toward the office, Ron suddenly stopped and snapped his fingers. "Didn't even think to catch 'er her name! Did either of you two?"

Bringing up the rear, Eric sang out happily, "She's called the 'White Witch'!"

Which was too eerie by half...

 _ **STILL AT POOLSIDE**_

 **Elayne explained the nature** and properties of a clootie well and Violet nodded in understanding.

"My people also venerate such places. I remember being told of Saintes Marie de la Mar in the south of France, where there's a sacred spring dedicated to a water goddess... I believe it's called 'Oppidum Priscum Ra'?"

"Zackly so!" Elayne beamed. "Me an' Sally's been there lotsa times!"

Hazel waved in the general direction of the woods sheltering the Spirit Pond. "Ours is just a little pond hidden in the woods, fed by thermal springs so it's always warm."

"Isn't the guardian a water spirit called Myrtle?" Sally inquired.

"Myrtice," Dottie corrected.

"Whatever..." Elayne said. "Five minutes in the water there an' all your aches an' pains an' worries disappear... for a little while, anyway."

"Sounds more a mineral spa... with drugs. I don't do drugs," Violet objected.

"Not drugs," Dottie spoke up. "Not like you're thinking. More of a soul-calming effect, I would say. In olden days folks went there for answers, for peace of mind. Don't think they actually bathed in it, though. Anyhow... Elayne's right... it's the perfect place to take Dora where she can open up her mind and be receptive to what we have to tell her."

"She'll be so mellow ain't nothin' gonna upset her!" Elayne added.

"Does the doctor know about this?" Violet wanted to know.

"Born and raised right here in these parts, wasn't she?" Dottie confirmed. "Of course, she can't go around recommending it professionally... people would think she's gone off the rails. And you have to be a believer to get any benefit from it."

"Is Dora a believer?"

"Oh my yes... she's just forgotten, is all."

"And you swear there's nothing harmful in the water?"

"Nothing at all... she'll be perfectly safe, her memory will be restored, and I can almost guarantee she'll be free of flashbacks from then on."

"Elayne, Hazel... do you agree with Dottie on this?"

They nodded affirmatively.

"I'm in, then."


	23. Chapter 23

_**Chapter 23:**_ **WHICH WITCH IS WHICH?**

 **Strictly speaking, none of the six women** assembled in the courtyard at Follyfoot were properly attired for riding, with not a heeled boot or hardhat in evidence. No one cared. Blair Statham was in his element, having been given a heads up by Dora, and the four elderly horses and one pony were groomed to a fare-thee-well. While not exactly frisky, they were considerably more alert and surer on their feet than either they or keepers were accustomed to—a puzzlement to Bill Chadwick but not to Mr. Statham, who'd very quickly twigged onto what'd been done under his nose that morning in the barn but was keeping to himself. A small problem presented itself... Dora was a stickler about ill-fitting saddles and there were only three that fit the chosen mounts. Statham apologized for not having thought of that.

"No biggie, Blair," Elayne declared, pointing at Sally. "My niece there's been ridin' bareback most all her life and there don't appear to be much danger a fallin' offa any a these nags. I imagine Miss Violet can manage that pony without a saddle, too."

Violet opened her mouth to protest—not about being saddleless, but about being relegated to a pony. Elayne forestalled her with "Suck it up, darlin'. You're the smallest an' lightest... you get Shorty there."

Dora went up on Otto, Hazel on Jinx, Sally (sans saddle) on Lucy and Violet on the fat spotted Halfpenny. Holding Hector's reins, Elayne had a private word off to the side with Statham and he nodded affirmatively before giving her a leg up and opening the paddock gate. The assemblage moved forward at a dignified pace, with Dorothy bringing up the rear in her cart.

 **Statham watched until they cleared** the earth dam at the eastern end of the big lake and turned off the paved drive onto the bridle path encompassing 'Follywood'. Earlier, he'd summoned the two security guards on duty that day—George Davis and Johnny Lloyd—and communicated his orders—one was to guard the north entrance to the path and prevent anyone from entering, and the other was to keep watch on the southern terminus about a quarter mile down the drive.

Due to escalating liability issues and demands by the property insurance provider, public access to private areas'd been at first restricted and eventually denied by six-foot chainlink security fencing and key-coded gate locks. Even though the portions comprising the Visitor Centre were contained within separate fencing, there were always periodic intrusions by numbskulls, usually teenage toughs, who reckoned 'no trespassing' applied to other people and not to them and managed to slip through from the public to the private side. Other security measures insisted upon by the insurance provider were met by a contracted agency in the form of a rotating contingent of 'watchmen', mostly retired law enforcement and military personnel. All were duly range-trained, registered and licensed to carry firearms. As they alternated perimeter checks in Honda® Foreman 500™ 4x4 ATVs, their 'persuaders' of choice were .410 Mossberg 500® Bantams™ loaded with birdshot. It was a necessary evil.

George and Johnny'd been around the longest and were well-liked and trusted by all the Follyfoot people. Statham had no worries as he strolled, chuckling, back to his office. Whatever business the witches were up to in this out-of-the-ordinary broad-daylight covening at the clootie well, they would be protected from prying eyes.

 **Although most of the old men of the Hall** wouldn't admit to it, old superstitions died hard. They respected the powers of the hidden world and stayed well away from the pond hidden in the woods to the southeast of their enclave. Successions of Ross and Stryker children and their friends had no such inhibitions, however, and had regarded the pristine spring-fed lake as their private swimming hole for the past four decades, even after purpose-built pools had been installed at Follymoor and Tiger's Eye—the official name of the Stryker home. At the moment, Statham judged, there was little likelihood of anyone—child or adult—taking a notion to visit the lake when there was a heated pool available up at the Big House. It was nearing the end of November, after all. But Elayne'd asked him nicely if he could post a guard just in case and so he had done.

Statham thought about his aged grandmother up in that nursing home forty-something miles to the north near the grimy little coalmining town from which his family'd sprung and from which he'd run away at age thirteen to make his fortune. Indeed he _had_ made a fortune... and lost it through arrogance, greed and bad investments. Then there'd been all those years of trying to recapture his glory days at the bottom of a bottle. He'd so carefully obscured his antecedents in the early days of his rise to success that it was sometimes difficult to remember from whence he'd come. Statham rarely wasted time on regrets, these days. He knew he was lucky... very lucky... to find himself at age seventy-six in comfortable surroundings with a meaningful occupation and a secure future... and it was all due to the Rosses—Dora Ross in particular, who'd never, not once, alluded to the unpleasantness that'd occurred between them when she was yet a young woman. A forgiving soul, was Miz Ross, and he would be loyal to her forever.

Blair Statham had many secrets, and one of them was knowledge of her husband's family. Being five years junior to James Ross, he hadn't known him very well at school but had read in the newspapers the account of the tunnel collapse that'd taken his life as well as that of Statham's own father. He'd felt nothing at the time but'd read the obituaries anyway, noting the appeals for donations to assist the widows and their children—among them Kathy Ross and her young son Steven. Then he'd put it out of his mind until he fetched up at Hollin Hall. Miz Ross'd mentioned on several occasions that she knew nothing of her husband's family and Statham'd many times thought about telling her what he _did_ know... about the persistent rumors of Jimmy's true parentage and worse, the lowdown on that common tart he'd married, known to possess the roundest heels in the county. But he could never summon up the courage to introduce what on the surface was nothing more than vile gossip. He'd decided to let it be.

Sitting at his desk he made a note to remind himself he should go visit his gran. Although long retired from the craft herself, she'd be pleased to hear there was still an active witch community in Yorkshire. Most Normals lumped witches into two categories: the ugly, warty crones in black hats and gowns who simmered frogs and newts in cauldrons... and the inhumanly beautiful young ones who cavorted in the altogether under full moons around bonfires. Statham knew that most witches fit neither profiles but appeared as ordinary women on the surface. Perhaps Miz Dora and Miz Hazel were being initiated into the coven? Although, didn't they require a quorum of thirteen to conduct any official rites? He shivered. _There_ was a thought to give an old man pause... any road, it wasn't any of his business. George and Johnny would keep to their posts. Either would let him know on their two-ways when the ladies emerged... or whether there was any trouble.

 **On the way back from Hull,** Steve drove and Ron rode shotgun. Squashed into a corner of the rear seat, Jesse moped silently as the two up front discussed the finer points of the good ship 'White Witch' instead of addressing the more pressing issues with rapidly shrinking deadlines. He kept slipping further down until finally he lay on his side with his knees drawn up and one arm shielding his eyes, fending off an encroaching headache and trying not to think at all.

As they approached York from the east it suddenly dawned on Steve and Ron that they'd missed lunch and were famished. Steve swung onto the A64 bypass south and took the A19 exit, then had to backtrack (with Ron cringing in his seat), bucking traffic all the way to reach his objective: the McDonald's® on Saint Nicholas Road. He would have preferred a pint or two and 'real' food at a neighborhood pub but with Monday's debacle still fresh in his mind he thought it more prudent to opt for fast food.

It wasn't until Steve parked the Rover and turned off the ignition that he remembered Jesse in the back seat and experienced a microsecond of panic when he saw nothing in the rearview mirror. He turned his head around the headrest to peer down at his recumbent son.

"What's the matter with you?"

Jesse removed his arm and cracked open one eyes. "Nothing. Not a damned thing, Dad."

"Ron and I are going inside for a bite to eat. You coming?"

"No thanks. I'll just wait here until the sky falls."

"Suit yourself."

 **The two older men got out** and went into the restaurant, Steve grumbling about kids and their moods. They got their orders and settled into a booth as far away as possible from diners with small children too young to be in school.

"You _know_ what's ailing him," Ron brought up tentatively.

"Yeah, I know. I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

" 'Kay."

Steve picked at his French fries. "What would you do, Ron? If it were your problem."

"Run like hell? Just kidding. I dunno... go ahead and tell Hazel, I suppose. Get it over with."

"It's just not fair," Steve muttered.

"What isn't?"

"Those first two, three years at Follyfoot... I hardly went out at all, didn't drink much, never dated anyone..."

"Except Wendy..."

"Except her..." Steve shivered. "...and then Tina, a couple of times..."

"Once is all it takes, m'lad," Ron interjected sagely.

"And there _you_ were... the one with the reputation... the one mothers locked their daughters indoors just at the mention of your name. Why didn't _you_ get ever get caught?" Steve asked bitterly. "Why did it have to be _me_?"

Ron was shaking his head and giving him a rueful grin. "An' you believed all that tripe? You was always tellin' me I was more full of it than a barnful of owls. Shoulda paid attention to yer own words, 'cause you was right on the money. All them girls everyone thought I had? Nothin' but blarney. Just my mouth puttin' the shine on. Nine times outta ten, any bird what come along an' whispered in my ear was askin' about _you_... was you with Dora, was you seein' anyone else, would I introduce yer? Got downright tiresome it did."

"I'd no idea... really. I was envious of _you!"_ Steve marveled through a mouthful of Big Mac®.

"Yeah... well... the only one I ever told was that what's-iz-name... the day it rained and Dora moved all the furniture around and we had that party in our pyjamas..." Ron stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes going big and his mouth hanging open unattractively.

Steve choked, coughing up a pickle slice.

" **Bernard!" they yelled simultaneously,** drawing curious stares from other customers.

"Bernard..." Steve repeated. "He was there... he was there to... why was he there?"

"He came to help in the stableyard... little guy... talked all the time," Ron babbled.

Steve slapped his forehead. "Yeah... yeah... American... blonde... I didn't like him much... and we got into a fight..."

"Over Dora... because he kissed her before you did! It was a corker of a fight, too... I remember when... oh!" Ron shut up suddenly, recalling he'd been the instigator of that event.

"Ron..."

"What?"

"Why? Why are we remembering this just now... both of us, at the same time? I haven't thought of that lad in forty years... or the pyjama party..."

"Neither have I. That's just... spooky."

Both of them felt as if a cold fog had descended upon them.

"You don't suppose... that stuff Jesse was tellin' us is true?"

"That we had spells put on us? No. Of course not." But Steve wasn't looking as confident as he was pretending to be. "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. We'd better get going..."

"Yeah, we'd better," Ron agreed gruffly.

They tipped the remains of their mostly uneaten lunch into the bin and placed the trays on top, then hurried out to the car park. Steve'd parked the Rover in the far corner of the lot in a single, odd-angled space partially concealed by a row of thick bushes. As they approached it, Ron stopped and put his arm out to prevent Steve from advancing. He raised his nose into the air and inhaled deeply. "Cor!" he squeaked. "You smell that?"

" **Smell what?"**

"That!" Ron pointed toward the far side of the Rover where a thin curl of bluish smoke rose to roof level before dissipating in the breeze. They walked around the rear of the vehicle to find the rear left passenger door ajar, with Jesse's head hanging off the edge of the seat as he lay on his back with his feet propped up on the opposite armrest.

Jesse grinned lazily as his father and uncle hove into view, upside down from his perspective. The sweet, pungent, unmistakable aroma of cannabis rolled off him in waves. Ron fought mightily to suppress the belly laugh he felt rising at Steve's expression of outrage.

"What in hell...!" Steve hissed furiously, at the same time darting his eyes around to make sure no one else was watching. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses!"

"Um... not yet, Dad... still workin' on it..." A smoke ring wafted gently in the air. Standing behind Steve, Ron was turning three shades of purple trying to keep that laughter from escaping.

"And doing it in _my_ car, too... you're gonna get us arrested!"

Jesse squinted one eye shut. "Technically, Dad, only the part of me from the neck down is in the car... the naughty bit is outside the car. Want some?"

"Certainly not... get rid of it... now. We have to get out of here!"

Jesse sighed, sat up and made to put the tiny little roach end, which'd gone out anyway, in a pocket but Steve yipped.

"No... I mean OUT... throw it _OUT!"_

"Oooooooo... but that would be littering. Mustn't litter. You could get fined for..."

"We'll talk about this later. And fasten your seatbelt!" Steve slammed the door angrily and yanked open the driver door, throwing himself into the seat with unnecessary roughness. Getting in on the other side, Ron coughed to conceal a chortle and wiped his eyes, which'd started to water with the strain of keeping it all in.

Steve maintained a stony silence the rest of the ride home. Ron kept his eyes carefully averted lest he inadvertently catch his friend's eye and burst out laughing, while in the back seat Jesse drifted off to sleep.

 **When they arrived at the Hall,** Steve got out and slammed the door, then pulled open the rear passenger door, startling Jesse awake.

"I'll see you in my study as soon as you've sobered up! And _you_..." Steve swung the accusing finger around to point at Ron. "I might have known _you'd_ find this funny! Some friend you are! How would you like it if it were _your_ son?" He stomped away up the stairs and into the house, slamming those doors as well.

Ron turned to look at Jesse and couldn't contain himself any longer. Soon they were both howling. Jesse struggled to unhook the seat belt and almost fell to the ground once he'd managed to get free. Ron'd come around to help.

"The look on his face... priceless!" the older man sputtered.

Jesse tried and failed to look appropriately chastised. "Dad's fixin' to open a can of whooparse on me!"

"You asked for it!" Ron pointed out.

Jesse wasn't nearly as high as he'd made out to be; one pinhead wasn't nearly enough. "I guess Dad's told you all about the Tina business?"

Ron shook his head. "Yeah. A right mess, that is. When are Vonda and the kids gettin' here?"

"I pick 'em up at the airport next Saturday. If he hasn't told Mom by then, I don't know what's gonna happen. It's lookin' more and more like I'm gonna have to be the one and I'm not lookin' forward to it. I'm on my last nerve as it is..."

"And you think weed's gonna help?"

"No. But it'll take my mind off it for a while. I'm gonna go someplace quiet and have another. Maybe two. Wanna share?"

"Don't mind if I do. I know just the place..."

"Hang on… let me run upstairs and get my phone… forgot it when we left."

Jesse returned a few minutes later, all trace of whacky weed dispelled from both his face and his person.

"Problem?" Ron inquired.

"Yes, no and maybe. Vonda left me a text message… she was able to get an earlier flight. Guess I'd better let Mum know right away."

"That would be advisable," his uncle agreed. "Women tend to get disagreeable when their plans are disarranged!"

"You can say _that_ again!"

Failing to flush Dora, they appealed to Miz Bee and were told the Follyfoot women and guests could be found at the Spirit Pond."

"T'was I you, I t'wouldn't be botherin' em!"

Weighing the lesser of two evils—interrupting a hen party versus not informing Dora of the early arrivals—the two set off down the drive towards Follywood and the hidden lake.

 _ **EARLIER, AT LAKESIDE**_

 **Although slightly indecorous,** the ladies of the lake were up to nothing as scandalous or exotic as Blair Statham'd imagined... yet. Upon arrival they'd tethered their mounts in a shaded grassy patch and unloaded items Dorothy'd brought down from the Big House in her cart... an ice chest containing bottles of wine, plastic beverage glasses, three large rugs and a duffel with all their swimsuits and towels—Elayne's notion of swimming in the buff having been rejected. Dottie'd even thought to grab a water bucket for the animals and it was filled and situated well within their reach.

As the riders'd crossed the drive from the barns to the trail, George—already on station and starchily professional in his brown uniform—stepped from the shadows where he'd parked his 4x4 and intercepted Elayne. He handed her a two-way radio with which she could contact him in the event of an emergency, affirming that no one—absolutely no one—would be able to get by him or by Johnny several hundred yards up the drive at the second entrance to the wood.

 **Thus assured, they shucked out** of their clothes and changed into their swimsuits at water's edge, even Dottie. The six dipped, bobbed and floated together in the warmest spot where the thermal spring fed the pool and exchanged desultory conversation. Eventually they clambered out and spread the rugs side by side partially in the sun. Sally uncorked the first bottle of champagne and filled glasses to be passed around. Presently—due to a combination of the bubbly plus the salutary influence of the spring—Elayne announced it was time to re-immerse.

This time, however, she stripped off her swimsuit and issued the chicken challenge... Sally, Hazel and Violet immediately took her up on it. Dottie elected to stay discreetly suited but urged Dora to join them. Finally, she did.

"Oh mercy!" Dora laughed, swimming across the pool to join the others. "I haven't done this since... since..."

"Since 1974..." Elayne supplied helpfully while Sally and Hazel held their breaths.

"Yes... yes... of course... but how would you know that?"

"You told me yourself... remember? A day or two later... and you weren't by yourself, were you?"

"Well... no... I don't think I was... was I? I don't remember... it wasn't Steve..."

"No, not Steve... he didn't know how to swim back then. It wasn't Ron, either. Here's what I want you to do, hun... just close your eyes and lie back and float... and think about who you were with that day. Let the visions come to you. Don't be frightened... there's nothing to be scared of."

Feeling pleasantly loose and carefree by then, Dora did as Elayne said... and come they did. Not at all scary, especially with her three friends floating close by and good old trustworthy Dorothy keeping watch over her from the bank.

Elayne led Dora through her missing week with skillfully crafted prompts. One by one the puzzle pieces fell into place until they formed a coherent whole. Dora's eyes opened and she righted herself, treading water. From the look on her face, composed yet determined and brimming with questions, Elayne judged it was time to move on to Phase Two of Operation Rehabilitation.

"Let's get out of the water and dry off," Elayne said abruptly, heading for the bank. "There's more you need to know, little girl."


	24. Chapter 24

_**Chapter 24:**_ **FALLING OFF THE EDGE OF THE WORLD**

 **Decently reattired, the women seated themselves** cross-legged in a circle on the rugs. As usual, Elayne opened the floor (or the rug) for discussion: "Now that you know the who and the what, have you figured out the why? What do you think changed up here?" Elayne tapped the side of her head.

"I was at my wits' end," Dora began slowly, "trying to run the farm, trying to keep everything together for all of us... and then Bernard came along and everything started changing... the way we were thinking and doing, I mean."

"Yes... yes... very good. Keep going," Elayne encouraged.

"He said he was from the future and that he was there to help me. At first I didn't understand that he meant me personally... I thought he meant help with the stables, so I hired him. But you already know all that... all of you were there at the time. Steve didn't like him at first, but the more they talked... well... Bernard showed him what he needed to do to change his life, and pointed out the path to get there. I didn't understand it at the time, of course, but I did think it odd that Steve started talking about going back to school and such. He wasn't one to accept advice from anyone..."

"And what was the main thing _you_ learned from Bernard?"

"The same, basically... how to be proactive rather than reactive, how to take charge of my life and move forward..."

"And?"

Here Dora smiled and blushed. "I knew I was losing Steve and I thought if only I knew how to kiss the right way I could hold him to me. I asked Bernard to teach me how to kiss and he did. And you, too, Elayne—you told me what I had to do to keep Steve from running away. And suddenly he asked me to marry him... after I'd given up all hope."

"Exactly, yes."

"I didn't want to believe you and Dot and Hazel were witches... I mean, who would? But you must have put a spell on him, for him to do that. We were barely speaking at the time. Otherwise, why would he suddenly change his mind so drastically? And now that I've remembered, I have to tell him, don't you see? I can't go on living a lie." Dora said it matter-of-factly, as if she were speaking of going to the store for a loaf of bread.

"I told you then and I'm telling you now... yes, we were and still are witches... and no, we did not use any sort of witchcraft on Steve!" Elayne stated emphatically. "Now then, we're gonna play fill-in-the-blanks, starting with the reason Bernard came here in the first place. Sally... would you like to start us off?"

 **Sally pulled the spiral notebook out of her bag** and held it up. "This is the journal Bernard kept in the week he was here in 1974. As you yourself said, you and Steve were about to part ways... which we couldn't allow for reasons which will become clearer later. Bernard's mission was to steer you two back together by any means possible, which he did. Yes... there was some unpleasantness involved, regrettable but unavoidable. Steve had to be made to confront his demons in order to overcome them... but in the end, it was simple human emotion that guided him to the decision he made—not physical coercion or magic but love, jealousy and fear of living the rest of his life unloved and alone.

"I would like to read to you parts of Bernard's journal as they pertained to his mission, which will explain in greater detail the why and the how. There are aspects of your personality—and Steve's—that may be hard for you hear, and I'm sure you'll have questions... but you'll have answers, also. If you prefer not to hear this, you'll always wonder how your life might have turned out differently... without Steve in it. It's up to you, Dora... do you want to know everything—the good, the bad, and the ugly?"

After a few moments of silence, Dora admitted that, yes, she wanted to know.

 **For the next hour, no voice was heard** other than Sally's narrative... and when she was done Elayne took up the thread. "It's true, Dora. He loved you then as he does now, but the state of your relationship in 1974 was an unmitigated disaster. We looked into the past and decided we had to do something... that is, I decided. I take full responsibility for having interfered in your life."

A full gamut of emotions played over Dora's face as she'd sat listening: mortification at the way the desolation of her younger years'd been laid open to public inspection; anger that other people'd presumed to chart her course through life without her knowledge; gratitude that, acting _in loco parentis,_ those same other people'd cared enough for her happiness and welfare to do so.

"Are you angry with us? I wouldn't blame you if you are," Elayne asked quietly.

"No... I think not. And now that I know, I'm not afraid anymore. I don't even feel guilty, but..."

"But?"

"All these years of not being able to remember... why was that? And why was I having all those horrible flashbacks?"

Elayne grimaced. "That was all my fault. A couple of days after your birthday party, I did put a spell on you... on all of you... so that you wouldn't remember. The situation was so new and delicate, so vulnerable, I thought it would be best if none of you thought overlong about it. It was a very powerful charm... probably the strongest one I've ever attempted—it lasted for forty years, didn't it? But it wasn't infallible and when it started to weaken, your memories started coming back in bits and pieces as flashbacks."

"Will I continue to have them, do you think?"

"No. They're all done now. You're fixed!"

"That's wonderful news... but what about Steve and Ron? Aren't you going to have to fix them as well? I know now why you brought me to the clootie well but you'll never get Steve here, much less get him out of his clothes!"

" **At the moment Steve's got another issue on his mind."**

"I'm aware of that. I just had this conversation the other day with Jesse and he wouldn't tell me anything. Just because _my_ problem has been solved doesn't mean I get to stop worrying about his!"

Elayne inclined her head toward Dot. "Dorothy, it's your turn to weigh in..."

The only one not sitting on the ground, Dot was regally ensconced in a folding aluminum and mesh lawn chair.

"Are you satisfied with what you've heard so far, Dora?"

"Yes, I think so..."

"And you're settled in your mind that it was wordcraft, not witchcraft, that finally brought you and Steve together?"

"I guess so..."

"Then what would be the purpose in telling him anything at all about that... erm... facet of affairs?"

"None, I suppose. But I won't lie to him!"

Dot sighed and shook her head. "We're not suggesting you lie... just that, when you _casually_ bring up the subject of having remembered what happened that week, you omit certain information. It's not relevant to anything that affected him, he wouldn't understand, and he wouldn't believe it. He might, in fact, conclude that you've had a nervous breakdown and have you committed."

"He wouldn't!"

"Do you want to risk it, though?"

Dora thought about it for a few moments. "But it would be all right to bring up Bernard?"

"Perfectly all right. Bernard didn't do a single thing out of the ordinary or questionable in Steve's presence, did he? Well... maybe one or two, but they were incidental and accidental. Look at it this way... can you claim to have always been one hundred percent truthful in thought, word and deed? Haven't there been occasions when you chose to conceal something relatively unimportant from Steve because you wanted to avoid a fuss? A pricey purchase, perhaps?"

Dora admitted sheepishly that she had... many times.

"And don't you think he on occasion has neglected to mention something to you for the very same reason?"

Probably.

 **Hazel broke in, speaking for the first time.** "There's some truth to the old cliché, 'What they don't know won't hurt 'em.' Some information is best kept among us girls, eh Dot? I've never told Ron, you know."

"Never told him what?" Dora asked.

"About us being witches. He didn't need to know, so I never told him. Don't intend to, either."

Dora pondered this.

"Sometimes, Dora, the end does justify the means. Look how long you've been together, how much you love each other. Look at what you've built together and the wonderful family you've produced. None of that would exist today if you hadn't gotten married when you did. Why muddy the waters unnecessarily?" Hazel didn't know she was paraphrasing Dot's earlier advice to Steve.

"You're right. It would be best if Steve never hears of your... involvement. That still doesn't help me with whatever else is going on with him."

The other five women gave each other searching looks before focusing on Elayne.

"Perhaps," Dot said, "we should tell her? Obviously Steve hasn't the courage to do so... you decide, Elle."

With Dora's expectant face turned in her direction, Elayne made a command decision.

"First, we gotta back to 1974. The day I first saw you and Steve together, I had a vision that prophesied a union between your house and mine..."

"House?"

" **House in this case means 'family'.** The prophecy foretold that a grandchild of your house would be united with one of mine, but in order for that to happen you and Steve had to get married and have children. That's why I worked so hard to help you two get together. At that time I didn't know _which_ grandchildren were involved, but when Jesse was born I knew he would be the father of yours. I didn't know who the mother of ours would be on account of she wasn't born yet, but I found out later. The identities of the children themselves were revealed in other visions although it would be a while—years—before they'd ever meet. Everything seemed to be running on schedule. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes... I think so..."

"But then I had a vision showing a possible rift in the timeline—an alternate future in which you and Steve did _not_ marry, in which case the life you've been living these past forty years wouldn't have happened and none of this around us—all of it, including Follyfoot—would exist. Well, we couldn't have that, could we? So Solánge—Sally as you now know her-—and I co-opted Bernard to go back in time to help us fix that."

"I have a question!" Dora interrupted. "How close is this prophecy to being… erm… fulfilled?"

"Oh honey... it's a done deal! Those kids have already met and bonded."

"What does this have to do with what's wrong with Steve?"

"I was just getting to that... it's tied in with the prophecy, but not in such a way that we'd anticipated."

"Is he seeing another woman?"

"No, sweetpea... this doesn't concern the _now_ so much as the _then._ You do understand, don't you, that Steve wasn't... um, how shall I put this?... let's say, _uninitiated_... as in, not exactly a choirboy when he came to Follyfoot?"

"I never expected that he was."

"But you assumed he'd been with other women... before you?"

Dora colored. "I never asked him about that but yes, I assumed he had. I admit I was very naive back then, but I wasn't stupid."

"And of course you know, from experience, that young people are prone to errors in judgment when it comes to... er... certain actions... and that occasionally there are accidents."

"We were going to be married anyway!" Dora defended herself hotly.

"Well, I sincerely doubt he was planning on marrying Tina," Elayne said dryly, "but an accident occurred nonetheless."

 **For a moment, Dora was speechless.** "But... but... that was more than a year before... and she never came back. How could...?"

"To be brutally honest, the girl went away with a bun in the oven and Steve never found out... until a few days ago. That's what he's all in a lather about... how to tell you!"

"Wait... stop. Are you saying... Steve made a _baby?_ With _Tina?_ "

"That's about the size of it."

"Boy or girl?"

"Boy."

"I see. And where would this child be presently?"

"In the States."

"How did he get there?"

"Adopted out and the parents emigrated."

"How did Steve find out?"

"Jesse told him."

"And how did Jesse find out?"

"That, my dear, is going to take some explaining."

"What's his name, by the way?"

"Who's name?"

"Tina's baby, of course... Steve's son... what's his name?"

"Oh... it's Robert... Robert Ross Cameron."

 **Everyone's attention was diverted** by the muffled shriek coming from Violet and all eyes turned her way. She had both hands clasped to her mouth with agitation imprinted on her face.

"What is it, girl?" Elayne said, a trifle impatiently.

Violet removed her hands and waved furiously. "Not now! Not now! Finish what you were saying first..."

"So explain already!" Dora demanded. "After what I've learned today, I don't believe there's anything left I could possibly be shocked by."

"That's what you think!" Elayne said. "Tina's baby grew up, married and had babies of his own. But somehow in the midst of that he also managed to produce an heir on the wrong side of the blanket—and it's this boy who's the other half of the prophecy equation."

"Hang on a minute... let me think," Dora's brown was furrowed in thought as her synapses played connect-the-dots. She spoke slowly, "Pallas is the only one of my granddaughters old enough to get married... and she has a boyfriend—Rowan. I've seen photos of him on FaceBook... Yvonne says Pallas is determined to marry him someday. Am I to conclude that this is the grandson in question?"

"Got it in one go!"

"But... if Rowan is Steve's grandson, Elayne, how can he be related to you? You don't have any children!"

"Easy peasy... Sally over there is Rowan's grandmother... and I'm her auntie."

Dora peered at Sally. "I seem to think... or recall... wasn't Bernard your husband?"

"Was and still is... as I told Jesse yesterday."

"So... this means we're all going to be related by marriage?"

"Indeed."

Dora started laughing. "I'm sorry!" she wheezed. "This just gets better and better..." Suddenly she stopped and her mouth fell open as her mind completed the connection. "But that means... if Pallas and Rowan are both Steve's... our... grandchildren... they _can't_ be married, can they?"

"Sure they can," Sally said. "Cousins marry all the time and they're only half-first cousins. Consanguinity isn't a problem."

This time both of Dora's hands flew up. "Okay... I'm officially shocked and awed. I'm done. You can stick a fork in me now."

"Excuse me..." Everyone's head rotated toward Violet.

" **We're not** _ **quite**_ **done,"** she said in a timid voice, having regained her composure. "We… Dora and I… have something of relevance to add... as if matters weren't confusing enough..."

For Sally's benefit, Dora said, "Just the other day we discovered that Violet is related to Steve... she's his second or third cousin or something like that... his great-uncle and hers were brothers."

"Yeah... but there's more... Robert Ross Cameron is my father. Rowan is my half-brother."

In the startled gabble that followed, Elayne bellowed, "Why in hell didn't you say so?!"

"I didn't realize until just a few moments ago... when you mentioned his name! No one knew about him until today... just now... so how would I have known?"

Dora was looking dazed. "So that means... you're Steve's… _our_ … granddaughter, too?"

"Well... yeah... I guess I am. Surprise!"

Hazel was quivering with indignation. "When you told Dora's fortune the other day, you said _'... of your house but not of your flesh.'_ How could you not have known then?"

"Because we don't do fortunes for ourselves," Violet cried, "... only for _gadje_... outsiders. I couldn't 'see' my father and brother because of their gypsy blood, which I didn't know about until today. But I just remembered something my Mom told me years ago—about when she and Dad wanted to get married and were expecting trouble over it because he wasn't one of us... When she presented him to the matriarch—my great-great-grandmother Alícia—she gave them her blessing. Everyone was shocked and asked her why, but all she would say was that he was _already_ in the tribe. Wow, I can't wait to tell Mom! She's been wondering about that since forever! Alícia has the eye, you know... I'll bet she's known all along!"

" **Would you look at the time!"** Dot suddenly spoke up, startling everyone. "Martha will be putting dinner on the table in an hour and here we all are!"

There was a mad scramble to collect all their things and load them on the cart, then claim their mounts and head back up the trail as quickly as they could manage. With Dora far enough ahead and safely out of earshot, Hazel and Elayne rode side by side.

"That went rather well, don't you think?" Hazel said.

"Entirely too damned well," Elayne answered. "Nobody's _that_ laid-back after gettin' the news she just got. Either she's in shock or Myrtice sprinkled an extra heapin' helpin' a happy dust in that water!"

"It's called being in denial," Sally added, following close behind with Violet. "Pretty soon the full import of all she's learned will sink in and then the cheese'll hit the fan. One of us needs to keep an eye on her."

"That would be me, I guess," Violet volunteered, "Now that she's _my_ granny and all..."

 **The sun was setting as the cavalcade** broke from the tree line... to the sight of a red-faced George gesticulating and arguing with Jesse and Ron. They broke off as soon as they realized they had company.

"What's going on here?" Dora asked, pulling a reluctant Otto to a standstill. The others were also having difficulty bringing their horses to a halt. It was past feeding time—the horses knew it and were anxious to get to their barn.

"Jesse needs to have a word with you and Mr. High-and-Mighty here won't let us pass!"

"Mr. Statham said no one, no how, no way... and he's the boss, not Mr. Stryker nor young Mr. Ross!' George retorted smartly.

"You were quite right to keep them away, George. Did you explain we were having a girls-only get-together?"

"I did, Missus Ross, but Mr. Jesse said it didn't mean him on account of you bein' his mum and Mr. Ron said it didn't mean him either on account of Missus Stryker bein' his missus."

"I'll be sure to tell Mr. Statham that you acted in strict accordance with his instructions. He'll be very pleased, I'm sure. Now go collect Johnny and go on back to the Hall for your dinner. My apologies for keeping you from it!"

George tipped his cap respectfully and strode off toward his 4x4 after throwing an 'I told you so' look at the other two men.

Dora looked down at her son. "You need to get back up to the house straightaway and let Miz Bee know we'll be a few minutes late..."

"Mum… there's something I need to…"

"Not now. I'm busy. Oh... and tell her I'm very sorry to keep her waiting!" With that she tsked to Otto, who set out with alacrity.

As the others streamed by at an unusually spirited pace, Jesse and Ron watched with surprise and curiosity.

"Someone been feedin' them old crumblies steroids?" Ron wondered.

"Not that I know of. Maybe there's a change in the weather coming?"

"That Hector's been less than a day away from the knackers for months... and just look at him!"

Shaking their heads in wonder, the two trudged back up the hill.

 **Upon their return to the house,** the women dispersed to wash up before dinner. Martha Barton intercepted Dora and Violet with the advice that Dr. Sheffield'd been by to check on her patient and wasn't best pleased to find she wasn't resting as ordered. However, after Miz Bee'd told where Dora and the others'd gone and why, Joanna Sheffield'd said, 'Well, that's all right then. She'll be fine now. You can tell her she's released from house arrest but to call me if she needs me.' Both Joanna and Mrs. Barton'd grown up in the district and the legend of the clootie well known to them since childhood, so no further explanation was necessary.

When Miz Bee delicately inquired if Violet would be returning to her former station as she was no longer needed as a nursemaid, Dora laughed and told the astonished woman that the girl'd been promoted to granddaughter. "And I promise I'll explain later... after the family's been told," she added cryptically before chivvying Violet up the staircase.

Even with six at table, dinner that evening was subdued compared to the past several days. Ron and Hazel'd gone home. Over Dora's objections Elayne and Sally'd gone back to the hotel. Julia and Ian'd taken his grandmother Dottie with them to dine at his parents' farmhouse down the road. Sarah and Jason were hosting a dinner for friends at their own home. Dora'd to fight to keep her face composed under the weight of her newly acquired knowledge and was vastly relieved when Michael introduced a new topic.

"Almost forgot to say, Trini's folks are coming for the party—they'll be here next week… Wednesday, I believe."

"What? All of them?!" Dora gasped.

"Well… yeah. Is there a problem with that?" Michael inquired blandly. He could be so wildly impractical at times! At his and Trini's home there was never any difficulty when the number of guests exceeded the number of beds as long as there was any open floor space to spread pallets.

"No... no... we'll work it out!" _Somehow._ Sleeping arrangements would have to be reassigned yet again, Dora thought feverishly.

"Excuse me…" Jesse interrupted. "While we're on the subject… Vonda and the girls are coming in early…"

"How early is early?"

"They're in the air as we speak…"

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" Dora demanded.

"That's what I was coming down to tell you, Mum, but you didn't give me the chance. They'll be here tomorrow… and they're bringing two guests."

Dora threw up her hands in exasperation.

 **Martha Barton finally left, taking Denise with her** and for once gladly accepting clearing-away assistance from 'the boys'. Claiming fatigue and headache, Steve retired early to the guest bedroom he was temporarily occupying. Dottie'd not yet returned, apparently having a late evening with her son and grandson and their wives. Dora asked Violet to accompany her to her study so that they could go over the guest list.

Despite the hour, Dora put in a call to Elayne at the hotel, explaining her dilemma _vis-à-vis_ bedroom space. Elayne assured her that she and Sally were perfectly comfortable remaining at the hotel and made a suggestion: "Don't fret, honey. Let that beancounter kid a yours handle this... it's what she does best."

Elayne was right, as usual. Julia'd no doubt be able to sort out in a matter of minutes what otherwise would take Dora hours to accomplish. She'd call first thing in the morning. Head bursting with thoughts galloping in all directions, Dora at length suggested taking a bottle of wine out to the pool house where she and Violet could admire the full moon visible through the plexiglas dome while discussing in privacy what they'd been studiously avoiding since before dinner, including Violet's new position in the family tree.

Violet, holding the bottle, held open the door to the pool house so that Dora, with a glass in each hand, could pass through. Both were immediately assailed with an unmistakable sweetish aroma and stopped dead in their tracks. Wreathed in blue haze at the far end of the pool, three figures reclined on lounges.

 _ **OVER THE OCEAN BLUE**_

 _ **At optimum cruising speed and altitude above the Atlantic Ocean...**_ a widebody British Airways Boeing 747-200 sped through the inky blackness. In Row 9, Business Class, Marie-Madeleine Camerata and Yvonne Halvorson Ross occupied portside seats A and B. Across the aisle in center seats D, E and G, Yvonne's three younger daughters were sleeping. In starboard seats H and J, Yvonne's oldest daughter was making a face at Madeleine's son, who'd just concluded the most unbelievable confession she'd ever heard.

"And you expect me to believe this crap?"

"I guess I should've told you about this earlier."

"Ya think?"

"I meant to... I've been giving you clues all along... there just wasn't ever the right time..."

"Oh... and this was it?"

"Grandma Sally said I had to, before we meet your grandparents."

" _Our_ grandparents," she corrected. "Gawd, I'm still not believing this... my own cousin! It's embarrassing... no, more than that, it's humiliating... I always thought this sort of thing only happened in Alabama or one of those other inbred states."

" **Come on, Pallas...** don't be that way!" Rowan cajoled. "Remember... inbreeding is how we get champion racehorses!" The joke almost elicited a smile... but not quite. "Seriously, cousins marry all the time. Grandma says it's rampant among English aristocracy to keep money and land in the family."

"I don't know whether to spit or go blind."

"Hey... it's not _my_ fault our fathers are related... and I can't help being what I am... or my family being what they are!"

"Row, you're comparing apples with oranges! Illegitimate children happen in the _real_ world. Witches and... whatever you think you are... are _fantasy_."

"Maybe you should talk to my grandmother... she can explain so it makes more sense."

"Look... I can accept that maybe you believed in the supernatural when you were a child... but you're a big boy now and it's time to put away childish things... just like it says in the Bible."

"1 Corinthians 13:11," Rowan flipped back, surprising the heck out of her. "What, you think I've never read the Bible?"

"Why would you have? I didn't think witches did church," she replied caustically.

"They do... and they don't. It's complicated," he sighed. He didn't feel up to attempting to unravel the mechanics of his forebears' Metís society and how their Christian—in the main, Catholic—faith blended with Shoshone belief systems, not to mention—in the case of his immediate family—an additional ingredient in the form of what was nowadays called Wicca.

"You never mentioned religion before, Pallas," Rowan said. That this might be an issue'd not previously occurred to him.

" **My school offered comparative religion** as an elective and we read King James for its analytical content," she shrugged, deciding to toss him a conciliatory bone. "But I understand where you're coming from... Mom's mother and grandmother may have been strict old Lutherans but they brought their folklore and superstitions with them from the old country—from Norway. As a child Mom heard and memorized all their stories about the _jolesveiner_ , the _rokkemænd_ , the _underjordiske_ and trolls and mermaids... and _hulder_ women— _hulders_ are witches whose familiars are cattle—and she passed them down to us. We believed in them until we got too old for that, but to this day Mom keeps some of the traditions going."

"What kind of traditions?" Rowan asked, curious.

"Oh... painting crosses on doors and keeping a hymn book under the mattress. Next time we're at the house... my house... remind me to show you the volcanic geode she keeps on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. One of our ancestors brought it back from Iceland—like—hundreds of years ago and it's been handed down from eldest daughter to eldest daughter ever since. I get it next. It's supposed to appease Loki, the god of fire. And right next to that is Dad's dobbie stone—that's a stone with a natural hole or depression in it. My Grandpa Slugger found it one day when he was digging potatoes and gave it to Dad when he was a little kid, told him it was a good luck charm. Dad carried it in his pocket always, until he married Mom, and then it went to live on the windowsill because it's supposed to protect your home and family."

"But you don't actually believe these items ward off evil?"

Pallas shrugged. "Mom says it can't hurt to keep 'em there, just in case."

"Our beliefs aren't that far apart, then," Rowan offered. "And from your studies you must know that female shamans are recognized in almost every non-Christian and non-Hebraic belief system in the world."

Pallas knew this to be true.

"Shamans are sometimes considered witches, but witches aren't necessarily shamans. My grandmother Sally's both but my mom isn't. Grandma has some really awesome powers... I've only seen a few of them. Mom's are more subtle... I used to believe she really had eyes in the back of her head. They know about us, you know..."

 **Pallas blushed.** "That's not something I wanted to hear... although Mom and I talked about it… just recently."

It was Rowan's turn to redden. "Geez! You _told_ her?!"

"She asked. I wasn't going to lie about it."

"Did she go ballistic?"

"No. We're not doing anything she and Dad didn't do when they were our age. She just reminded me to... you know... be careful. I assured her we're taking every available precaution. She doesn't have a moral issue."

"What about your father?"

"If she's told him, he hasn't let on. We'd probably both be embarrassed if he did. He's no dummy and he was your age once upon a time. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten."

They were silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Rowan yawned and Pallas poked him in the side. "Tell me something..."

"What?"

"I just remembered... on Family Day at camp… I overheard you and your mom talking about something... or maybe it was someone... that you were supposed to be ready for but you weren't and you were scared... what was all that about?"

"Oh... that. It was you, from the prophecy..." Spoken drowsily. "She told me years ago you'd be the right one..."

"What prophecy? What nonsense is this? Mothers always tell their kids that the right one is out there somewhere and you'll find him or her someday... blah blah blah."

"Oh no... she was more specific than that... she and Grandma looked into the future way before we were even born and saw us together..."

"Say again? Row, wake up! What did they see?" But it was too late, and there was no use trying to rouse him once he'd fallen into a deep sleep. Pulling her own blanket up to her chin, Pallas allowed herself to drift away.


	25. Chapter 25

_**Chapter 25: GIRL MEETS BOY—PALLAS' STORY**_

 **From a young age Pallas Athena Ross'd** held a pragmatic view of her own attractions. She may not have been the fairest one of all but held a healthy advantage in the looks department, having never wanted for male admirers from the time she hit puberty. Hers wasn't a genius intellect but she consistently scored top grades, headed up honor rolls year after year, graduated _summa cum laude_ , and missed being chosen valedictorian by two measly votes. Her naturally outgoing and engaging personality assured her popularity among peers and adults alike. She'd been blessed with a singing voice of operatic quality, inherited from her mother's side of the family. In all other respects, however, she was no different from any other teenage girl. She'd as keen an interest in romance and sex as any of her friends, but the boys she'd dated so far'd left her uninspired, mainly because they were so absorbed in their own burgeoning manhood they failed to meet her expectations.

As the Ross girls'd always been encouraged to put at least some of their summer vacation months to good purpose, Pallas'd elected to spend her post-graduation summer in community service, signing on as a music and swimming instructor at a camp for disadvantaged youth.

 **Established decades earlier** by a well-known Seattle philanthropist, Mountainview Youth Camp occupied hundreds of acres along the western shore of Montana's Flathead Lake—the largest natural fresh-water lake in the western United States, tucked between the Mission and Salish mountain ranges. Although not affiliated with the national non-profit organization Big Brothers Big Sisters®, the privately-owned facility was aimed at children aged eight through fifteen and operated on many of the same principles. Applications were submitted by sponsors and pared down to two-hundred-forty kids per each of the three four-week sessions.

Open to high school and college students seventeen and older, counselor positions were voluntary and highly sought after. Only individuals with sterling academic records and high grade-point standings were considered. Another requirement was possession of one or more skills pertinent to camp activities, which the counselors would be required to teach. The camp's reputation for _par excellence_ programs offered an additional benefit: Certification of successful completion of service counted as a full floating credit at many private colleges—in Pallas' case, the goal was a pre-admission sociology credit at Glacier Institute.

As volunteers, counselors received no compensation other than room and board and had to provide their own pocket money, which further ensured that only the most highly motivated and qualified young people applied. Counselors also doubled as cabin leaders. Management attempted, where possible, to maintain a ratio of one counselor for every six children. With twenty cabins altogether this devolved to twelve kids plus two leaders per cabin. Ten cabins for boys, named after wildlife, were clustered around a central bathhouse on the north side of the communal buildings. This arrangement mirrored the girls' facilities, with plant-inspired names, on the south side.

For obvious reasons of sanitation, the stables were located at some distance from the main concentration of buildings and water's edge. The wranglers, two young men and two young women, had their own duplex cabin close to the stables and were exempt from sharing it with campers. The only occasion for proximity with counselors was when they came into the dining hall, generally eating in a corner by themselves, or when it was a counselor's turn to shepherd a crocodile of children across the greensward for their riding class, then collect them afterwards. The wranglers were always busy adjusting this, that and the other bits of gear between classes and rarely condescended to speak to the escorts.

 **Pallas was assigned to 'Buttercup Cabin'** with another girl and a dozen eight-year-olds. By the end of the first week, she and Penny'd already scoped out all the boy counselors. After lights out and with the twelve little girls bedded down, the two girls settled on the cabin steps to trade assessments of the prospects… by and large a not unattractive assortment but in their estimation few worth writing home about. _Meh!_ Except maybe for one of the wranglers—square-jawed, tall and brawny with heavenly blue eyes and blue-black hair curling out from under the requisite Stetson—stereotype All-American Cowboy hunk in hand-tooled boots, indecently form-fitting jeans and a pearl-snapped shirt. Probably with a colossal ego to round out the package, Pallas sniffed. On her first trip to the stables with her string of little riders, Pallas'd felt herself coolly appraised and found wanting as he gave her a cursory examination, winked and turned back to whatever he'd been doing.

On her second trip, the _other_ boy wrangler'd come forward to take charge of Pallas' gaggle of girls. Under the brim of a disreputably tattered Vietnam-era boonie hat glowed eyes the pale amber of buckwheat honey. _Surely tinted contact lens!_ Conscious of her own winter pallor, Pallas assumed he must have started his tan in a salon long before reporting to camp—the exposed bits she could see... face, forearms and a vee of smooth chest above the open neck of a faded chambray work shirt... were the color of burnished hazelnuts, as was the shoulder-length hair streaming from under the hat. With a wide mouth and narrow face, he reminded her somewhat of the actor in the Mac versus PC commercials… Justin something.

He didn't return her cheerful 'Hi!' but flashed a startled look before turning his attention to the clamoring children and ushering them toward the line of tethered ponies.

"That there's Rowan. Goes by 'Row'. He don't talk much." The voice in her ear caused her jump. She twisted around to come face to face with a petite blonde, pony tail poking out from the back of a baseball cap. The girl grinned, sticking out the hand not clutching a manure fork.

"Howdy. I'm Phoebe, Pooperscooper Extraordinaire."

"Pallas... nice to meet you." She returned the handshake, inclining her chin in 'Row's' direction. "What's his problem?"

Phoebe shrugged. "No idea. Just met 'im a couple days ago and he ain't said five words since."

"His manners could use some polishing," Pallas opined.

"Nawww... I reckon he's jes' real shy. 'Cept with the little 'uns... then he shines... look at 'im!"

Watching his feline grace as he moved among the ponies and noting his care with the fledgling riders, Pallas easily understood what Phoebe meant by 'shine'. She decided this one merited a closer look but, when she returned an hour later to exchange the next group of little girls for the ones finishing their class, he wasn't anywhere in sight and Phoebe was there to receive them. Pallas was unaccountably both disappointed and disgruntled.

For the next few weeks she only got close to him twice each day, delivering and retrieving children. He never showed up in the dining hall at same time as she did. Two evening staff meetings were held back-to-back after campers' lights out, with half the counselors attending the first meeting while the other half minded the cabins, then they'd switch for the second meeting. It didn't matter which one she attended, he always seemed to be at the _other_ one. _Darn the luck!_

After a few initial abortive attempts to initiate conversation with this reticent wrangler, Pallas began wondering if he might not be marginally autistic—academically a high-achiever (he'd to have been in order to be accepted at the camp) but a social retard in other respects. When he did speak—infrequently and only when obliged to answer a question—it was in a soft voice in a very low register at times difficult to follow. More often as not he responded only with a gesture, a shrugged shoulder or a head nod. The only extended conversations he held were with the children and the only times he ever raised his voice was to address the riders with commands or instructions. Pallas considered the possibility that he might be differently oriented or... although her pride compelled her to reject the idea outright... he was downright uninterested in her, either as a girl or as a person. But every now and then she caught him looking at her with a speculative expression on his face.

Yvonne Ross was a firm believer in the Golden Rule—do unto others—and had done a thorough job of pounding that into her daughters' psyches. The best way to make a friend, she said, was the same way you gentled a horse... patient, consistent attention sprinkled with generous applications of kindness. Pallas Athena Ross was nothing if not stubborn and persevering. Whatever this Row's problem was, she resolved to wear him down until he allowed her to become a friend to him.

 **Midway into the second week ,** one of the girl wranglers had to leave due to a family emergency. Pallas was asked if she would take Sharon's place—they needed another female to bunk in with Phoebe and she was the only other riding-qualified counselor. She'd still be eligible for that credit, of course. _Twist my arm!_ In less than thirty minutes Pallas was toting her kit over to the wrangler's duplex.

The horsekeepers worked twice as hard as the other counselors. They had to be up at dawn to feed, water and groom the two dozen horses and ten ponies in their charge then have them saddled and ready for the first group of riders—the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. As senior counselors, Phoebe and Joe took this batch for their hour of instruction while Pallas and Row grabbed a thirty-minute breakfast break in the dining hall… separately, because someone had to mind the horses. The next group—ten- and eleven-year-olds—was their responsibility as well as the eight- and nine-year-olds comprising the last morning class before lunch. Phoebe and Joe had the better deal... leading their group on morning trail rides after sharing a leisurely breakfast. In the afternoons they took out the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds.

It was sweaty, physically demanding work but Pallas didn't mind—she liked children and loved horses. In the afternoons the classes were repeated with children not in the morning sessions. And before anyone went to supper, the horses had to be tended. By the time Pallas'd eaten, showered and attended the evening staff meetings, she was ready to collapse into bed. Aside from sleeping, she and Row were in each other's company almost constantly… yet as the end of first session and Family Day approached, Pallas couldn't claim to have made any significant headway in getting him to open up. She refused to be discouraged. She knew he was capable of smiling and even laughing, frequently doing both with the children—and he had a killer grin! Her new goal, since she'd been unable to draw even one of those smiles her way, was to get him to respond to a query with an entire sentence. Which would still be a very long way from carrying on an actual conversation, however.

 **On First Session Family Day** a full range of activities and entertainment in which parents and visiting siblings could participate were on tap, culminating in the presentation of awards and a Farewell Luncheon on the grounds. There would be no riding that day. Other than the usual morning and evening chores the only duties assigned the wranglers were escorting walking tours of the stables. The four divvied up watches, Pallas drawing the four to six time slot. By that time most of the first session campers would be on their way home, either collected by their parents or loaded on city-bound busses.

Pallas spent the remainder of the morning in the company of her father and sisters, showing them around the grounds—Vonda Ross'd been unable to attend. As they approached the wranglers' living quarters, Phoebe was just exiting the girls' side and Joe was bounding down the steps from the boys' side. Pallas introduced them, pleasantries were exchanged, and the pair went on their way. Cabin inspection concluded, they progressed to the stables where Rowan was busy with a tour group. Before Pallas could manufacture an excuse to hang around until he was free to be introduced to her family, the loudspeaker system announced that lunch was being served buffet-style in the dining hall. Additional seating in the form of folding chairs and picnic tables'd been brought out from storage and now dotted the grounds under the surrounding trees.

After going through the buffet line and commandeering a table, the family was just tucking in when Pallas spotted Rowan with an older woman who looked too much like him to be anything other than his mother. Both of them were looking around for someplace to set down their laden plates. She was toying with the idea of calling out an invitation to join their table when he noticed her, said something to the woman, and steered her in the opposite direction. How rude!

At three-thirty the visiting Rosses took their leave and Pallas trotted back to the cabin to change into her workclothes and boots before going to relieve Phoebe at the stables. She was sitting on her bed unlacing her sneakers when she heard two people entering the boys' side of the cabin. With both doors of the connecting bathroom slightly ajar, the continuation of an in-progress conversation was clearly audible…

" _She said I'd know when it was time..."_

" _How do you feel about it?"_

" _Scared, mostly. I'm not ready for this..."_

" _No one ever is..."_

" _I thought it would be, like... years... not this soon."_

" _I know."_

" _What do I do now?"_

" _Trust your instincts, son... and the rest will follow. But Bobcat... go lightly, okay?"_

Bobcat?

The conversation trailed off as the unseen speakers left the duplex. When the door slammed, Pallas let out the breath she'd been holding. Although the exchange'd held no meaning for her, she was struck with the certainty that it'd been _about_ her.

 **Not too long after second session** had launched, Pallas became aware that Joe and Phoebe'd embarked on an intimate relationship—neither a unique nor an unusual development among older counselors in summer camps. Official policy was 'thou shalt not' but interpretation leaned more towards 'thou shalt not _get caught._ ' Discovery would result in termination, therefore discretion was the watchword and any hankypankying had to be conducted under cover of darkness. Pallas started noticing that, very often when she woke up in the middle of the night, Phoebe's bed was empty. Occasionally she heard, through the thin bathroom doors, muffled noises coming from the other side of the duplex. When she broached the subject to her roomie, the blonde girl told her not to worry.

"But what if someone comes to check on us?" Pallas insisted.

"Ain't gonna happen... this is Joe's and my second summer. His partner was my boyfriend last year and vice versa. No one ever bothers with bed check. Too far to walk and no little kids to monitor."

It wasn't long before Pallas started wondering where Rowan was spending _his_ nights (surely not in the same room!). A change in the weather answered that question.

A cold front moved in and stalled over the valley. Such events were not unknown although the camp'd been relatively fortunate, weather-wise, during the first half of the summer. The sharp drop in temperature was a welcome relief from the summer's heat, but the steady downpour was not. Pallas didn't envy the other counselors being cooped up with children in the rec hall and classrooms all day as well as in the cabins all night, although there were plenty of alternate indoor activities to keep the kids occupied. The wranglers had no choice but to bundle up in foul weather gear and slosh over to the stables several times a day. Mucking out stalls with their restive residents _in situ_ wasn't easy, but it had to be done. A rainsuit afforded some protection while trundling a wheelbarrow full of manure to the heap or trudging to the dining hall, but not enough to keep the wearer completely dry.

Pallas'd been whiling away the evening hours sprawled on her bed, alternately listening to her iPod, reading her Kindle or surfing the 'net on her Notebook. Presumably Phoebe was next door... again. And where was Rowan? Best not to think about it. That was their business. It'd actually gotten chilly enough to warrant starting a fire in the little cast iron potbellied stove, which she did. Checked the mini-fridge to see if any interesting new edibles had surfaced by magic _(not!)_. Rummaged through the vermin-proof chest that held her and Phoebe's noshie stash _(cookies, more cookies, chips, other cookies, a few candy bars)_. Decided some hot tea would be in order and plugged in the kettle. Sighing and looking down to check the time on her wristwatch… discovering it wasn't there. _Shoot!_

She remembered having removed it earlier and leaving it on a shelf in the tackroom—it'd been her turn to run out the barrow and she didn't want to risk getting her watch wet. She debated if it would be all right to leave it where it was for the night, then decided not to—it was valuable and, besides, a graduation present from her sisters. She'd be sick if something happened to it. Complaining to herself, she struggled back into her raingear and boots, picked up a heavy-duty flashlight and squelched back to the stables.

 **With water dripping off her nose,** Pallas slid open the breezeway door just enough to slip through and turned to the tackroom. Opening the door, she flipped on the light switch and froze. For days she'd been wondering why there were three bales of hay lined up against the far wall with loose hay strewn on top. Now she saw they were providing a makeshift sleeping pallet for Rowan, rolled up in a sleeping bag… and not asleep.

"Do you mind?" he growled, flinging an arm up to shield his eyes.

"Sorry. Forgot my watch." She held the object up so he could see. "Why are you sleeping out here?" _Dumb question... mental head slap!_

"Why do you think?"

"Doesn't look too comfortable."

"It isn't."

"Or warm."

"It's not."

Pallas knew right then and there what the little red demon on one shoulder was going to make her do, even though the little white angel on the other shoulder was saying _'Are you nuts?!'_

"This won't do at all," she said briskly. "You're coming with me. There's a perfectly good empty bunk in my room."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I strike you as a comedienne? Don't worry, your virtue will be perfectly safe." Later Pallas would wonder how she was able to maintain a straight face when that slipped out.

Rowan sat upright, still hugging the blanket around him, looking uncertain.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea…"

"It's a better idea than you catching cold… come on, then."

She wasn't at all sure he was actually going to follow, and then was nervous when he did... all the way back to the cabin and through the door. What _was_ she thinking? She could rationalize her rash offer as humanitarian outreach, but why lie to herself? She _knew_ she was inexplicably obsessed with this boy… wanted to be near him, to touch his face… to get inside his head. All she was offering was comfort and cookies, right? Not anything more complicated. _Yeah… right._

 **Whatever Pallas was expecting** might happen—or hoped would happen or wanted to happen—didn't. Accepting tea and cookies from his hostess, Rowan sat cross-legged at the foot of his borrowed bed and skillfully deflected any sorties in the conversation that seemed to be straying onto personal turf. Doing most of the talking, Pallas swiftly found herself running out of safe topics. But that was okay—there'd be plenty of time later to plumb for details. One pleasant surprise was that he was already a student at Glacier Institute and they'd be seeing each other there in September. In the meantime, she wondered when—or _if_ —when he was _ever_ going to make a move on her… or at least a proposition. _Isn't this a teenage boy's ultimate dream... to be sequestered in a cabin in the middle of the night with a girl and hardly any chance of interference?_ Evidently it wasn't _his_ dream.

With a sigh partly of irritation and partly of relief, Pallas went off to brush her teeth and wash her face. When she returned, Rowan was already bunked down with the quilt pulled up to his ears and facing away from her… pretty much the universal signal for wanting to be left alone.

Stripping down to panties and tee shirt, Pallas flicked off the bedside lamp and slid between her own sheets. Sleep didn't come right away, though, as Pallas considered what might have… but had not… transpired this evening. She was eighteen years old and so far had not given herself to anyone, as had so many of her girlfriends before they were hardly out of puberty. She'd gone on The Pill at sixteen with her mother's knowledge and approval… but with the tacit agreement that this wasn't to be considered license to engage in promiscuous behavior. Though not a hardline feminist by any means, Yvonne believed that young women were entitled to _their_ measure of wild oats before settling into a monogamous relationship… and she'd ensured that Pallas entered that playing field responsibly and fully informed. The one promise Vonda'd extracted from Pallas was that when the time came to choose who would be her first, she would choose wisely… someone she'd been around long enough to form a reasonably accurate opinion of character, someone who treated her with respect and whom she respected in turn, someone whose company she enjoyed.

After nine weeks of observation, Pallas Ross'd made up her mind that Rowan Cameron was that someone. Oddly enough, the very fact that he'd been a perfect gentleman only reinforced this belief. All that remained was to tempt him down the garden path.

 **Pallas dreamt she was standing** in an airport concourse, surrounded by hordes of people scurrying this way and that, in urgent need of a restroom with not a one in sight. Then, of course, she woke up to find she was in fact in desperate need. Bolting out from under the covers and wrenching open the bathroom door, she dove into the cubicle containing the throne in the nick of time. _Ahhhhhhh!_

Also in tee shirt and panties, Phoebe was standing at the sink with a toothbrush in her mouth and foam dribbling down her chin. _"Uh ih ell?!"_

"Sorry, sorry! Hadda go... couldn't wait!"

" _Ah uhs us cumn ake ou!"_

"What?" Pallas finished, flushed and emerged from the stall.

Phoebe removed the toothbrush, turned and spat into the sink. "I said, I was just coming to wake you and get dressed myself. Your alarm didn't go off. The rain's quit and you've got a class in... oh!" Her eyes widened as she spied through the still open door the quilt-shrouded man-shaped lump occupying the far bed— _her_ bed!

"Why, you sly little critter, you!"

"It's not what you think!" Pallas objected.

"I hope this ain't too personal, gal, but are y'all usin' protection? I got some if ya need it..."

"On the Pill," Pallas gritted as she bent over the sink to wash her face.

"Okeydokey, then... I kinda like ta think of myself as the Big Sister here."

"Thanks... I appreciate having such an excellent role model!" Pallas retorted drily. "Socks... I need socks... where're my socks?"

 **Somehow the girls managed** to get themselves dressed and shod without waking Rowan, then quick-stepped to the stables—or as quickly as they _could_ step in the ankle-deep mud. On the way Phoebe made Pallas a seemingly reasonable proposition to which she readily agreed and hoped Rowan would as well.

"Seein' as how things is the way they is..." Phoebe concluded. "Nobody needs to know unless one of us spills the beans." Pallas knew her about-to-be-ex-bunkmate's cowgirl-speak was nothing but put-on—Phoebe was an English major at the University of Puget Sound.

"I'll sound him out at lunchtime," Pallas promised.

 **Mucking out was completed** in record time and the mounts ready and waiting for their diminutive riders. The schedule'd been amended so that the junior wranglers now had breakfast after the first class instead of before. Their stomachs rumbled in complaint as they watched the ponies plodding in circles and called out encouragement to the eight-year-olds aboard. Newbies were never allowed out of the paddocks.

Pallas marveled at the devotion Rowan inspired in these youngsters—he was so patient and never had any behavior problems with them... or with the ponies, which Pallas found strange because in her experience almost all ponies were either uncooperative or downright naughty. She'd always counted herself 'good with children' but she wasn't anywhere near as good as this. _He'll make a great dad someday. Holy moly! Where had_ _that_ _come from!_

 **Pallas didn't have an opportunity** to bring up Phoebe's idea until lunchtime, when on their revised schedule she and Rowan were huddled in their special corner in the dining hall away from everyone else.

"Will you at least consider it for their sake? It's only six weeks. After that Phoebe goes back to Seattle and Joe goes back to Texas and who knows when they'll get to see each other again?"

Rowan didn't answer at first, taking the time to refill his coffee mug from the carafe, sugar it, add cream, stir, take a sip... Pallas wanted to scream.

"I mean… we're both adults here. We're friends, right? We don't have to… it's not like you're… like we're… interested in each other. In _that_ way…" Pallas knew she was blushing.

Finally he raised his eyes to hers… and for the first time held the gaze with an intensity that was almost hypnotic. His expression was totally devoid of the guardedness she'd come to expect. She couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to.

"What makes you think I'm _not_ interested in you, Pallas… in _that_ way?"

Pallas' mind went blank at this unanticipated response. She'd thought herself in control of a situation… only to find that she wasn't. It took a few seconds to marshal her thoughts back onto terra firma.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you. But in six weeks you've not given me any indication that you've even noticed I'm a girl, much less expressed any feelings for me one way or another… not once since we met." She nibbled her upper lip, stalling for time. "What was I supposed to think?"

"I have feelings, Pallas. I'm just… hesitant about where they're taking me."

 _Which means what, exactly?_

"Doesn't answer my question if we can be roommates or not… if you don't think we can, or just don't want to be around me that much, then all you have to do is say so…"

Row sighed, not disengaging his eyes from hers. "I'd like to believe I'm responsible enough to govern my own behavior… it's not a question of whether or not I _want_ to be around you… Pallas... if we do this, you _do_ understand, don't you, what might... what's likely to happen? Consider your future and decide if this is what you really want… because what I want is more than just a roll in the hay."

This was an extraordinarily intimate declaration from someone who'd yet to kiss her or even hold her hand. To cover her consternation, Pallas quipped, "I hope that's not a marriage proposal because I haven't thought that far into the future."

"No, it's not," he answered quietly. "But some day it will be."

 _What an odd thing to say._

 **Over the next several weeks** Pallas Ross and Rowan Cameron shared their room with no one the wiser other than Joe and Phoebe. Pallas wrote off the tail end of that extraordinary lunchtime conversation as a perfectly deadpanned leg-pulling performance on Rowan's part. He hadn't come right out and _said_ he found her attractive, had he? No. He hadn't acted in any way that would indicate romantic interest, had he? No. As for that 'probability' he'd mentioned... as Pallas understood it, you didn't necessarily have to be in _love_ —in _like_ would suffice. Why'd he even brought up the subject if he'd no intention of following through? On the other hand, she found encouragement in the fact that Rowan _was_ loosening up conversationally.

Only once did Pallas and Rowan come close to an argument which could have damaged their slowly evolving relationship. Pallas'd finally worked up the courage to ask him about his ethnic background… which he was surprisingly open to sharing. At first he tried to outline it in terms of inherited percentages... one-half of this, one-fourth of that, one-eighth, one-sixteenth and one-thirty-second of something else. Fascinated beyond measure, Pallas demanded an indepth accounting of how each ingredient'd been added to the pot.

Rowan explained that his Acadian Creole ancestor Armand de Passepartout had in 1863 fathered a mulatto son on one of his Senegalese slaves. After the Civil War, Passepartout Senior'd removed his extended family from the devastated South to the unspoiled wilderness of Wyoming, along with his former Cajun overseer's family and whichever emancipated slaves wished to join them. Armand's son Emile, now a freedman of color, took up ranching with a generous bequest from his father and a Shoshone maiden as his wife. Their quadroon daughter Adèle moved farther north to Montana where she cohabited with but did not marry another Shoshone-Métis by the name of Gabriel Many Ponies. Adèle's maiden surname passed to her octoroon daughter, Solánge, who married Bernard Florentinus di Camerata. Despite his baroque Italianate name, Bernard was a descendant of the born-on-the bayou Cajuns who'd followed the Passepartouts from Louisiana. His and Solánge's children—including Rowan's mother, Madeleine—thus could be classified as mustefino, were such distinctions still being made and such archaic labels still in use.

"So what does that make you?" Pallas'd asked ingenuously.

"I have no idea," Row grunted, "but most ignorant white people just call us 'breeds'—a handy all-purpose category."

 **Stung, Pallas temper had flared.** "Are you calling me _ignorant?_ _I've_ never called you that. I've never even _thought_ of you that way! I only asked because I was curious. I love the way you look. As far as I'm concerned you've inherited the best of everything so don't get all pissy with me! You should be proud of your heritage and not act like it's some deep, dark secret that you've got to hide. I wish I had such an interesting background instead of a plain old ordinary whitebread family..."

On the verge of telling her off, Rowan fortunately recognized that it was naïveté that'd spurred her outburst… blonde-haired, brown-eyed, fair-skinned Pallas... who'd never in her life experienced a single moment of ethnic prejudice. That evening, after chores were done and they were free to relax in the privacy of their cabin, Rowan sat her down and told her what his life'd really been like, growing up on the rez… but having to maintain a second skin—a masque—for those times he was required to live 'on the outside'. Granted, his tribe was a hundred times better off than the majority of Native Americans living on reservations. But it was still an artificial environment, by no means equal to the world of white European Americans.

After that, the emotional barrier that had been keeping Rowan from expressing his true feelings was weakened, though not entirely swept away. The first holding of hands occurred… and the first embrace… and the first tentative kiss. Pallas wanted more and said so, but Row held firm… insisting the time wasn't right.

The end of July and Second Session brought another Family Day. Pallas had advised her folks it wasn't necessary for them to visit again as they would be coming to pack her up and take her home at the end of August anyway. Pallas continued to text her sisters and parents regularly but carefully edited her news. She didn't, for instance, let it be known that she and Rowan'd be dorm neighbors when the fall quarter started in September. She was also circumspect about the photos she posted on FaceBook.

 **Vonda and the girls came to Third Session** Family Day at the end of August. Jesse sent his regrets that business precluded his coming along to help Pallas pack up… not that she'd a great deal of stuff that needed packing! Rowan's mother hadn't shown up for either second or third session, which Pallas found rather odd. No… he assured her… as a teacher herself, she was too busy with pre-school-year activities and he'd his own car, so no need for momma's assistance.

The moment Pallas introduced her mother to Rowan Cameron, she knew something was terribly off kilter. Vonda made all the appropriate comments and was trying very hard… too hard… to keep a pleasant expression plastered on her face. As for Rowan… the stone wall of reserve at which Pallas'd been so resolutely chipping away all summer rebuilt itself in an instant. He, too, was being overly polite, keeping Pallas at arm's length as if she were no more than a casual acquaintance… and almost immediately withdrawing from the scene. Vonda remained tight-lipped throughout the Farewell Luncheon while Pallas desperately cast about for a reason… any reason… her mother'd been so repulsed.

Vonda Ross and the girls were staying overnight in the visitors' dormitory, along with the other parents there to collect their counselor offspring. Some of the counselors'd already left on the busses or in private vehicles. Others would be going the next day… the wranglers after the horses'd been loaded onto stock trailers. After the light dinner that evening, Vonda sent the younger girls off to the dormitory and rounded up her eldest for a mother-daughter heart-to-heart. For privacy's sake they walked out to the lake and sat on the end of the dock.

" **Tell me about this boy,"** Vonda said.

"There's nothing to tell, Mom. We're just good friends." Which at that point was technically still the truth.

"What do you know about him? His people?"

"Oh come on, Ma… it's not like we're planning on eloping or anything…"

"Pallas… you're not…?"

"No, Ma… we're not… we haven't… but…" Here Pallas took a deep breath before going for the deeper plunge. "He's the one…" Pallas watched her mother's expression carefully… what she could make of it in the twilight. Vonda clearly had an objection and was struggling to maintain a calm façade. Pallas couldn't imagine what the problem might be. It couldn't be because of his ethnicity… her parents were too open-minded for that.

"Can I ask one question?"

"Huh! Just one?"

"Why?"

"Why?" Pallas parroted. "I'm not sure, Mom… I like him. I like him a lot. We've been working together almost the whole three months so it's not like he's some stranger I just picked up in a bar…" _Oooooh… that sounded too defensive._

"I should hope not. Is he… um… aware of your plans for him?"

Pallas almost giggled. "Yeah… for all the good it's not doing me. He's acting like he's the one who's the virgin here!"

 _I can't believe I'm having this conversation with my mother!_

Vonda did allow a chuckle to escape. "Well, honey… maybe he is… have you thought about that?"

No… Pallas hadn't thought about _that._ "Oh."

"So why this particular boy?" Vonda persisted. "Is it because… he looks an awful lot like your Dad? Like he did at that age, anyway."

"Does he? I guess he sorta does… now that you mention it. And Mom… you know, he's quiet like Dad, too… and really nice."

"I'm sorry you won't have a chance to exercise your… um… choice, honey, seeing as how we're leaving tomorrow. Are you planning on keeping in touch with him?"

"Um… yes, Mom. We are planning that." _I guess now isn't a good time to tell her about the college dorms._

 _ **STILL IN THE AIR**_

 _ **Two hours away from Heathrow...**_ Vonda and Maddy shared a chuckle as they gazed across their slumbering progeny. At the beginning of the flight, Maddy'd turned to her seatmate and said, "There's something you need to know about our family... and this is as good a time as any..."

Vonda absorbed the information with surprising equanimity. When an attendant drifted by offering coffee, they each took a mug and clinked them in a toast. "May our children live in interesting times!" she said, paraphrasing the ancient Chinese curse. "I can hardly wait to see what awaits us at Follyfoot! Now... tell me more about this witch stuff..."

 **Pallas woke up** when the stewards came around to take breakfast orders although it was closer to lunchtime, London time—the plane was nearing the end of the nine-plus-hour flight and scheduled to touch down at 12:45 p.m. Row was still dead to the world so she took the liberty of placing his order for him rather than attempting to wake him up—a futile and frustrating process if he wasn't ready. Fortunately their seats were only a few steps away from the lavatory. During a lull in the waiting line, she dashed in to perform hasty ablutions and returned to her seat feeling greatly refreshed. Evidently her mother and sisters and Row's mother'd awakened much earlier and were looking none the worse for the wear.

 **Row looked so cute,** burrowed into his seat with a bunched-up blanket pulled up to his face and his hair sticking out all over like a golden brown hedgehog. Everything about him was golden brown, which was what'd attracted her attention in the first place. She tried to summon up some of the indignation she'd felt at his choosing to wait until he'd a captive audience to dump that load of tripe on her. Witches and prophecies indeed! Who were they to decide who her life partner would be? Only her parents had the right to regulate her life—to a degree—and even those rights would terminate when she came of age. On the other hand... she had Row, so what difference did it make what the purported witches'd seen in their stupid old cauldron or whatever they used to spy into the future? Short answer: None.

There was no denying he'd an otherworldly air about him that defied description. True, she'd been aware from the beginning that Rowan Cameron was exceptional... different from any other boy she'd ever met. True, she found the differences endearing... like the way he talked to animals—not in babytalk like most people, but in normal adult speech ala Doctor Doolittle... with the animals responding as if they understood exactly what he was saying. But witches and warlocks and fairies? _Oh, please!_


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter 26:**_ **BOY MEETS GIRL—ROWAN'S STORY**

 **On his first visit to Pallas' home,** Rowan'd been dumbstruck by the magnificent lodge perched on the side of a mountain and the momentous spread of Telemark Ranch itself. Not that his own family's holdings were shabby in comparison—he realized that his people lived equally well... just differently. It was odd to think that the immense lodge was occupied by a single nuclear family of six, not counting servants, whereas where he'd grown up people were always coming and going, making an impromptu visit and ending up staying for days or weeks. He'd so many aunts and uncles and cousins that he'd given up trying to place each one on his or her proper branch of the family tree. There was always some sort of festival or feast day or powwow going on and children and infants were often just left wherever they'd fallen asleep, to be picked up and carried home by whoever was handy and restored to their parents the next day... or possibly the following week.

Rowan hadn't spent that much time with his biological father—maybe two or three short visits and two extended visits each year during holidays—but those times were pleasurable in their way. The relationship between father and son was more like that of uncle and nephew— Rowan addressed his father by his name, Rob, rather than title. By the same token the man who'd served as his _de facto_ father—his grandfather Bernard—he called Boo.

The Cameron family's home in an upscale gated community was a rambling split-level affair with an inground pool and enough bedrooms that Rowan'd always had one to himself on his visits. He got along fine with his stepmother Margarita, who treated him as one of her own whenever he was there. His half-sister Viva'd always been kind to him and went out of her way to include him in activities even though she was a year older. He was sorry to have missed her on his last visit, learning that she was traveling somewhere in Europe. His two other younger half-sisters, Lucia and Stefana, were always glad to see him and eager to introduce him to new experiences such as surfboarding and rollerblading. He enjoyed going with the family out to the 'country', a laughable twenty miles distant, where Margarita's gypsy relatives proved as colorful, boisterous, fun-loving, superstitious and numerous as his Shoshone clan.

Rowan especially liked visiting great-great-grandmother Alícia, now over a hundred years old and a bottomless font of stories. The old lady, in turn, was intensely interested in his First Nations heritage and asked astute questions about culture and practices. He'd little trouble understanding her as one of his languages was Mexican Spanish, which was very close to Caló in origin. The last time he'd seen her, she'd laid a withered hand against his cheek and pronounced him a good Kalé boy and a credit to his people, which he took as a compliment even though he didn't own a drop of gypsy blood.

Some of Margarita's people still raised and traded gypsy vanners and Rowan' warrior blood was stirred by these gaudily colored animals—their bright paints, piebalds and pintos. He'd never seen anything like these half-size draft horses with their fluffy anklets of feathers and extravagant manes and tails that brushed the ground... and he was quite vocal in his admiration. It was a major surprise when, on his fifteenth birthday, a horse van from out of state arrived at the ranch and disgorged a black-and-white stallion and a brown-and-white mare, gifts from his father.

Madeleine'd not been pleased with such an ostentatious gesture—purchasing and shipping horses across state lines wasn't cheap—but she allowed him to keep them as long as he was willing to share with the tribe. Since then Florica'd dropped two lovely fillies and two sturdy colts, and Emilian'd sired many parti-colored foals by other mares owned by the collective. One year he'd managed to escape for a few months and there were now among the free-roaming range horses a goodly number of rotund hairy-legged bi- and tri-colored mustangs. The original vanners lived on Boo and Sally's farm and because of their gentle dispositions were great favorites with very young children just learning to ride.

 **The other important thing** that happened to Rowan on his fifteenth birthday was that Sally took him aside and told him about the prophecy, and the second vision that necessitated his grandfather's intervention. She gave him Boo's journal to read and later asked if he had any questions. His only concern was when this was going to happen and she said she didn't know, that none of them—however skillfully empowered—could pinpoint event timing that accurately, but that he would know it when it did. Although Sally didn't provide specifics about this alleged future mate, Rowan naturally assumed she would be one of their own. Going forward he found himself not only evaluating every new girl he met from a perspective not shared with his peers, but reexamining the ones he'd known forever, anticipating the blinding flash of illumination that would reveal the Chosen One. Or something like that...

When Madeleine found out what her mother'd done, she went up in flames. Rowan overheard every word of the 'discussion' from his hiding place at the top of the stairs.

"You'd no right to lay this burden on him without consulting me first!" Madeleine raged. "He's only a boy... you could have allowed him a normal childhood!"

"I disagree. Our kind tend to mate young. Better he knows his destiny before he's old enough to be led astray by temptation."

"At fifteen? Are you kidding, Mama?"

"You weren't even a year older when you conceived him, or have you forgotten?"

"No, I certainly haven't. But he's smarter than I was... and better informed!"

"Are you inferring you didn't receive proper instruction in birth control?"

"No, Mama... I accept that I made a mistake and I appreciate that you've always supported me... but this isn't the Middle Ages. We don't betroth children at birth anymore and we don't arrange marriages either. And I personally don't believe in predestination, no matter what you or anyone else says!"

"You seem to forget who raised this boy while you were away at school."

"That is so unfair! I've done what you and Papa wanted me to do, haven't I? And now you're accusing me of having abandoned my son? Don't you understand what kind of psychological damage this could cause? I don't want him growing up with the idea he has no choice other than to fulfill your stupid prophecy!"

"It is what it is, daughter. The Fates determined this, not I."

What Rowan told no one, what he managed to disguise from everyone—even his mother—was that for months afterward he'd been filled with dread. He was only fifteen years old, with only the vaguest notions of what he wanted to be when he grew up. As time passed he thought about it less and less and had pretty much buried it in his subconscious until the day that cute chick'd sauntered up to his paddock with her long blonde plait bouncing merrily and a crocodile of little girls lined up behind her like ducklings.

 **He knew immediately...** or thought he knew—allowing for a certain margin of error—and was overcome with the old fear, made even worse because she was a _white_ girl—a possibility he'd never once considered. His throat dried up and his vocal cords paralyzed, rendering him unable to return her cheerful greeting, not just that day but for days afterward.

Rowan hadn't especially wanted to be a camp counselor. He'd been suckered into it by the tribal council, which'd just this year negotiated the contract to supply the horses and ponies to the camp. They felt it would be prudent to have one of their own providing on-premise oversight as to the welfare of the livestock. These were valuable animals, top-quality... not old broken-down hayburners unfit for range work which was all the local suppliers were willing to provide. Among the plethora of cousins, Rowan was the only one with a grade point average high enough to be gain admittance as a counselor. His mother'd pressed him to volunteer, calling it 'giving back to the community.' An added inducement was the offer of a generous reduction in his debt to the tribe's college tuition fund.

At first he resisted being pulled into the girl's orbit. It couldn't have been more obvious she had him targeted. Phoebe teased him endlessly and Joe had merely advised, 'go for it.' Joe was an opportunist, as was Phoebe, which is why they'd hooked up so quickly. It would've made sense and they'd probably expected that Rowan and Sharon would pair up for a summer of love as well. But Rowan wasn't interested and Sharon wasted no time swapping her disappointment for one of the other counselors before she'd had to leave.

 **As a younger teenager on the rez,** Rowan'd never had trouble interacting with girls, having known most of them since birth. The 'outside' world was a different matter. He'd little experience dealing with 'white' females and the prospect of spending three months surrounded by them was, to say the least, unsettling. And, there were other reasons why he'd arrived at camp with an attitude and an air of standoffishness...

Although referred to by its inhabitants as 'the rez', the nearly nine hundred square miles comprising the Falling Waters Ranch Cooperative was not, technically, a reservation under the purview of the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs. The land was privately owned by individual families within the Osprey Band of the Shoshone Métis tribal association, efficiently operated as a collective entity, and managed by an elected Board of Directors.

By the time Rowan's generation reached high -age there were enough children, and the tribal association had the resources, to warrant construction of their own private educational facility at a more or less central location. Cousins living in outlying areas beyond reasonable commuting distance boarded with families living closer to the school and went home on weekends. Many of them, including Rowan, stayed with Grandpa Bernard and Grandma Solánge (Boo and Sally) at their sprawling home. Rowan'd never had reason to lament his only-child-of-a-single-parent status, surrounded as he was by hordes of cousins who were more like siblings.

Prior to the establishment of Sacajawea Montessori School, grades K-12, the children of Falling Waters'd been obliged to endure several wearying hours on busses each day to attend public schools in nearby towns, where they were subjected to cruel taunting by 'white' children and the general indifference of teachers who openly regarded them as second-class citizens. At the 'rez' school, no distinction was made between 'mostly white' and 'mostly Indian' or 'full-blood Indian' children. There was even a sprinkling of obviously 'all white' and black children from families where a tribal member'd married someone with children from a previous relationship.

 **Rowan and his friends** grew up without a true appreciation of racial or ethnic prejudice. As small children in the company of adults when 'outside', meaning off the rez, they were too young to understand the slurs and insults. As teenagers seeking summer employment, there was no need to look for jobs 'outside'—there was always plenty to do on a ranch. It was only when they went off the rez in search of entertainment in urban enclaves that they encountered hostile attitudes.

Turning the other cheek on bullies wasn't an option as passivity was not bred in the bone of these descendants of warriors. Rowan and his cohorts instinctively knew that the best defense is a good offense. They rarely instigated a fight but if one was on offer they never backed down, either. The more violent encounters generally resulted in mayhem ranging from bloody noses to broken bones and the occasional knife fight—among both boys _and_ girls. Rowan himself carried a few mementoes: one where a downward-plunging switchblade'd left a ragged path as it skipped over his right collarbone, and a long sickle-shaped scar below his left shoulderblade. His mother counseled that in the outside world it would be more acceptable to respond to inquiries with the explanation that he'd been injured in an automobile accident. She also suggested that carrying a buck knife honed to a razor's edge in his boot was not quite _comme il faut_ in the hallowed halls of academe.

Rowan went off to college with the intent of majoring in humanities and several career options in mind—bioethics (his mother's specialty) or cultural anthropology (his father's) or behavioral theory (his grandfather's). His only misgiving was how he would fare without the support of his cousins should some bigger, meaner, whiter student decide to take him on. However, Boo—having both graduated from and later taught at Glacier Institute—told him not to worry about it. The creed of this school—which leaned as far to the right as 'liberal' allowed—was to educate 'without regard to race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, national origin, age, marital status, the presence of a medical condition or disability, or genetic information.' The student body was in fact _so_ diverse that prejudice couldn't get a toehold—no one group held a clear majority. In this microcosm of diversity, Rowan learned how to 'pass' as whatever he chose when questioned as to his ethnicity. It wasn't so much a matter of fooling the eye but of fooling the ear and manipulating another person's perception of what you were. Almost as useful as the ability he'd inherited from his grandfather but wished he hadn't.

 **Rowan was mostly comfortable** in his own skin, yet there were moments when he felt alienated from people whose antecedents weren't nearly so muddied as his own, when he felt compelled to strike out, to defend his unique identity. He deeply regretted his rudeness to Pallas that day she asked that innocent question: _'What are you?'_... a question he'd often asked himself. Perhaps he'd overcompensated in trying to untangle for her the composition of the entwined bloodlines that ran in his veins. The fact that she'd not again brought up the subject let him know that she'd not forgotten it. He imagined the topic would rear its head again once he met his father's English relatives... her people. They'd be curious as well. Rationally, he knew he couldn't be the only one with such mixed emotions—several of his cousins also had a 'white' parent from 'outside'—however, they'd never discussed this among themselves. Now he wished they had. And he still carried that knife.

Resigned to working at camp instead of riding the range and trekking into the mountains rounding up livestock with a few of his favorite cousins, Rowan'd looked on the bright side: With the lessened debt to the council (which provided half of his tuition—his father and grandparents underwrote the other half), he'd be able to top off his savings and trade in his beater for a newer Jeep he had his eye on. He was getting a first-rate education. He had a level head and as many advantages as a nineteen-year-old could hope for. His hand was steady on life's tiller. And then SHE had appeared and he'd panicked. What if she _was_ the one? He knew he wasn't ready for the kind of commitment the prophecy foretold. And what if she _wasn't_ —but he fell in love with her anyway, knowing he _couldn't_ make a commitment?

 **For the first time ever,** Rowan heartily wished he came from a _normal_ family—all one thing or all something else... and excluding that other element that superseded 'normality' in general. It was almost a relief when Family Day rolled around and his mother confirmed his fears. _Like being told when, where and how you're going to die! You want to know it... but you don't want to know it!_ Face it: Resistance was either futile (according to the Borg) or useless (according to the Vogons and Whovians).

Nevertheless, events came to pass as they did and—with the initial confusion sorted out—the logjam'd broken. Rowan hadn't detected a hint of condescension in the Rosses. They'd treated both him and his mother as respectfully and politely as they would anyone else on their own social stratum, and seemed to accept without reservation his association with their daughter. Of course, at the time he'd still been ignorant of the fact that Pallas'd lived all her life in the company of the many Chippewa-Cree natives and Mexicans who lived and worked on the Rosses' ranch.

After a while Rowan'd unbent enough to begin engaging in tentative dialogue with Pallas. Sure, he'd inclinations and urgings same as any other normal adolescent male, but constantly reminded himself of his mother's dictum to 'go softly' and let friendship ripen first. It'd taken immense strength of will to refrain from taking advantage, as any other young man might, of her unabashedly escalating infatuation with him. Yet, against his better judgment he'd acquiesced when she ordered him out of the stable and into her cabin and later when she'd proposed he continue sleeping there for the remainder of the camp term. Only after their relationship had flowered into boyfriend-girlfriend and after he was sure her parents were both aware of that and had no ojections... only then did he allow himself to completely relax.

Once Rowan and Pallas were settled at school, entering into a physical relationship'd come so naturally they both wondered why people made such a big deal of it. There were no houseparents or hall monitors at Glacier, so no need for secrecy. At any time of the day or night there were people in the halls shuttling between rooms in all stages of dress. All the rooms were singles so there were no dilemmas such as they'd had at camp. Private activities were conducted quietly, discreetly... with none of the orgiastic free-loving let-it-all-hang-out atmosphere that existed back in their grandparents' frenzied heydays at college. Glacier students were serious academics, more concerned with enacting legislation governing environmental reforms than marching for social injustice. Sororities, fraternities and competitive sports had no place there, where individual achievement was prized above team spirit.

With nothing more pressing in the first week than attending various orientations and collecting required textbooks, they alternated sleeping in his room and hers. But when the new wore off and classes got down to business, they came to the reluctant conclusion that (a) two persons could not rest adequately in a bed designed for one, (b) there was only enough time outside of class to fool around OR study but not both, and (c) 'extracurricular' meant necessary activities outside of class or study—like eating, bathing and doing laundry. The curriculum at Glacier was intensive and both of them carried full class loads.

In any case, after a somewhat ragged start both Rowan and Pallas aced fall quarter exams. They learned new things about each other in fits and starts, within the small blocks of free time they managed to carve out... and they still had so very much to learn.

They weren't anywhere near contemplating a formal engagement and certainly had no plans to marry in the near future—he had two more years of college to complete after this, and then graduate school for an undetermined number of years depending on which discipline he chose to follow. She had three more years of college and hadn't yet chosen a career. They were satisfied with the status quo, however. Life was good. It was their mothers who had upset the equilibrium of their lives with their infernal meddling with genealogy. Why couldn't they have left well enough alone?

And now here he was, about to be introduced to her family... and—as it happened— _his_ family. Life was just full of surprises.

 **ARE WE THERE YET?**

 **On the ground at Heathrow...** Pallas helped her sisters get their things together while the mothers scoured the seats and underneath to be sure nothing was left behind. As each girl'd finished breakfast she'd been sent to the lavatory to brush, wash and take care of business. Tania was still in one and Row in another. Eventually all seven of their party were assembled, wafted down the tube walkway and decanted into the concourse. Even with their priority passes it took some time to clear customs, await reunification with their baggage and make their way to the hire car compound where their mini-bus awaited.

The younger girls were being particularly cranky, especially when they discovered they wouldn't be flying to Leeds after all but were facing a three-hour fifteen-minute drive to their grandparents' home. After receiving a ripe tongue-lashing from Yvonne, they settled down albeit with sullen faces.

Row studied their conveyance with curiosity; the purported "mini-bus" was actually an oversized camper van, complete with self-contained toilet and sink, kitchenette with microwave and mini-bar/refrigerator, a cunning little icemaker that dispensed crushed ice, fully stocked snack and liquor cabinets, and a selection of board games and books for the children. The eight oversize passenger seats were padded and leather-upholstered as was the driver's seat, with single pedestal utility tables between each. The only thing missing was a banquette in case someone needed a lie-down. As on a real bus, luggage was stored underneath the passenger compartment. Row's admiration for his future mother-in-law's organizational expertise increased tenfold. These Rosses knew how to do things up right!

Pallas was being a tetch standoffish and pointedly sat in the rear of the van playing Monopoly with her siblings. Maddy and Yvonne'd immediately fixed themselves cocktails which they were now enjoying in the midsection, shoes off, feet up. Row appropriated the passenger seat alongside the driver, which had the best view through the immense windshield. The mournful-faced elderly man with great white droopy mustaches mostly remained silent except for the occasional comment on this or that building.

 **Cities held no interest for** Row, child of the wild-open spaces, the High Plains. As far he was concerned, there'd be nothing of interest _to_ see until they reached scenic landscape or some of those quaint little villages he'd heard so much about. His mind roamed. When at last the van left both city and suburbia behind, Row started paying attention to the countryside flashing by. It was certainly very different from home... and so... _old_ —but in a good way... from tiny white-washed cottages skirted with drifts of flowers to huge estates bounded by acres of emerald lawn. For the first time in his life he began to appreciate the profound differences between the 'Old World' and the 'New World'.

 **At the back of the van** , Pallas intentionally lost the first game so she'd have a reason to withdraw from competition. Still miffed but rapidly getting over it, she was tempted to text Row just to see (a) if it would work and (b) if he would answer. Instead, she hauled out her Notebook and started reviewing the journal she'd begun on the first day of fall quarter.

 **Two hours into the drive,** Vonda came forward and dispensed an amended destination to driver. She and Maddy'd been texting husband and mother, respectively, and apparently not getting the responses they wanted or expected, judging from their not-so-happy faces.

As they were sitting right behind Row, he swiveled his chair around to face them.

"Something going on I should know about?" he inquired lightly.

"Nothing we can discuss at the moment," Vonda replied, meaning 'not in front of the children and the driver.'

"Leave it to me," Maddy chirped, hoisting her modest handbag off the floor and dumping it out on the little table between her and Yvonne's seats. She laughed when she caught Yvonne frowning as more and more items kept tumbling out, threatening to overflow the table. The latter's expression clearly said, _'No way!_ ' Row was unimpressed, of course. He'd seen his female relatives literally pull rabbits out of theirs.

"If you think this is something, you should see my mother's! Hers is half the size and holds twice as much junk!" Maddy chortled.

Maddy rummaged through the heap and fished out a long slender ivory-colored object, about eighteen inches in length, with a rosewood handgrip and tipped with a copper finial. "There you are, my beauty!" She kissed it, waved it around a few times and whispered something that sounded like Latin.

"And... as they say over here, Bob's your uncle!"

"Is that a... your... um...?" Vonda ventured to ask.

"Why yes, it is... My mother gave it to me as a graduation present when I left Hog... er... the academy. _(Some things you really weren't allowed to talk about!)_ It's genuine 'found' elephant tusk ivory, guaranteed harvested and not poached. Note the etchings along the shaft... runes, actually."

"And what did you... ah... just do with it? If I may ask?" Vonda asked uneasily. Hearing about magic was one thing... watching it being executed was quite another."

Row answered quietly, "Look behind you."

Vonda dutifully swiveled her head around to observe all four of her daughters slumped forward with heads on folded arms.

"Not to worry... they're just having a little nap. They'll wake up in an hour or so and won't remember a thing," Maddy said.

"What about him?" she tilted her head toward the driver. "I hope _he's_ not asleep, too!"

"Completely alert and focused entirely on the road... but he won't remember anything, either."

"Cool! Sure could've used something like that when they were all little." Vonda said. "Can I touch it?"

"Certainly... just don't say anything in Latin."

Vonda, who'd been reaching out for it, snatched her hand back.

"Kidding! Here, hold it..."

The wand was pleasantly warm and Vonda felt a pulsing sensation."

"Does it have a battery? It won't shock me, will it?"

"No battery... it has its own energy signature, but it's perfectly safe."

"And you use this to do... er... whatever you all do?"

"To be perfectly candid," Maddy confided, "a wand is more of a visual aid than anything else... only as powerful as the hand that wields it. What you call 'witchcraft'... or magic... could be accomplished by anyone with the right kind of training. Are you familiar with noetic science?"

"Never heard of it."

"It's a relatively new discipline that's exploring the potential of the human brain beyond what current scientific investigation claims exists... or is possible. But let's save that for later... I believe we have some things to discuss... and maybe you have a few questions for Rowan?"

 **Unlike Rowan's disclosure to Pallas,** Maddy'd told Yvonne _everything_ : about the original prophecy concerning their children, Elayne's vision revealing the potential rift in history, the mission to rectify that, and the problem with Elayne's failed charm which they were now attempting to resolve _._ Yvonne had inquired if she'd have the opportunity to read Maddy's father's journal and the latter had promised it would be made available. And, of course, they'd discussed the ramifications of the enormous complications they themselves had brought on by their genealogical discoveries.

Yvonne'd paid very close attention to her daughter's future mother-in-law's descriptions of their family's otherworldly attributes. Although a level-headed realist in most respects, she'd always maintained a cautious regard for the unknown. Privately she believed that every myth and legend handed down through generations of every society on earth—including miracles detailed in the Christian Bible—had at its core a kernel of truth. She knew she wasn't alone in this... people _wanted_ to believe in the mythical and magical, otherwise there wouldn't be such an ongoing demand for it in literature and the entertainment industry.

On the other hand, Yvonne was a mother, with an instinct and duty to protect her young. Superheroes and pantheonic gods were fascinating... but would you want your daughter to marry Spiderman? Or Dionysius? (Of course, she _had_ named her girls after GrecoRoman goddesses!) Damn skippy she had questions for Rowan Cameron!

"Have you told Pallas everything about your family... and I do mean _everything?_ "

"I tried... I don't think she's ready to believe any of it yet."

"And why should she? I'm not entirely sure I believe any of it, either, much less all of it... but I'm trying to allow for possibilities here. I must admit I have reservations about her marrying into a family of loonies... no offense, Rowan, but that's how you and your people would be regarded if this were common knowledge. What are you expecting from her, after she's had a while to think it over?"

Maddy raised an eyebrow but otherwise kept silent, being a mother herself and understanding the concerns all too well.

"I'm not _expecting_ anything, m'am. I'm hoping she'll give me the benefit of the doubt and decide it's no big deal."

"No big deal? I'd call it a very big deal indeed! What if she rejects the whole idea... and you?"

"I don't think that's going to happen... but if it does, I hope we can still be friends."

"You seem very confident, young man. So what's _your_ specialty? Are you a warlock or something? Isn't that what they call male witches?"

Row shot a glance at his mother as if to plead, _'Help me out here!'_

Yvonne's eyes narrowed. "If you intend to marry my daughter, I'd like to have some assurance that any future grandchildren will be... well... _normal_. Be able to lead normal lives, that is."

Maddy took over smoothly. "That would depend on your definition of 'normal.' Do you recall, Maddy, when we were reviewing the results of the DNA testing, the geneticist referring to certain anomalies in Rowan's DNA that are not present in Jesse's, and suggesting they were similar to autism markers?"

"Yes. Way over my head, that was!"

"And perhaps you've heard of autistic savants... people with extraordinary, unexplainable skills but who are developmentally impaired in other areas?"

"You're not saying Rowan is retarded, are you?" Vonda was horrified.

"Not in the usual sense of the word, no. Simply put, my father's ability skipped a generation. None of my four brothers inherited it and it was thought for some time that perhaps Papa was the last of his kind. In a way, our parents were relieved because it's difficult enough to function in the normal world when you're normal yourself, much less differently-abled. But the trait has manifested itself in the grandsons. It's fortunate that Papa is still around to provide instruction and guidance to Rowan and his cousins although he very rarely practices his skill these days. Based on this, I would venture to say that it's probable the next generation will be quite normal..."

"What about girls, though? Will my granddaughters be witches?" Yvonne demanded, adding with a laugh, "Just listen to me! If any of my friends back home could hear me asking a question like this they'd think I'd totally lost my marbles!"

"I imagine they would," Maddy agreed, "but getting back to the grandchild issue... yes, it's likely any future granddaughter would be... or could become... one of us, provided she was brought up with the necessary awareness and received proper instruction. This isn't a trait that has skipped generations."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Yvonne marveled, "but getting back to Rowan... he didn't answer my question... what exactly is he?"

"Rowan is sitting right here," he growled, not appreciating being discussed as if he weren't present. "And the short answer is, shapeshifter."

"Right. Of course. Shapeshifter. I get it. You can turn into an animal shape, just like in Native American legends." Yvonne didn't mean to sound quite so sarcastic but it came out that way. Oh oh... she could tell by the look on his face that she was treading the line.

Seeing her son was fast approaching the limit of his politeness quotient, Maddy intervened once more. "We prefer the term 'perception manipulation' these days. Obviously it's physiologically impossible for the human body to transform into something else, but it is possible for someone with the appropriate skills to influence your thought processes and persuade your conscious mind that you're seeing something that's not really there..."

"He reads minds, too?" Yvonne exclaimed.

"We missed the turnoff to Follyfoot," Row said. He'd been following their route on Mapquest UK via his 4G Android and could clearly see they were now heading for Harrogate.

Detecting a note of hysteria creeping into Yvonne's voice, Maddy decided to defuse the situation pronto. Raising her wand like a conductor about to cue his orchestra with his baton, she snapped the fingers of her other hand. Almost instantly a chorus of disgruntled voices started up from the rear of the van.

"Are we there yet?"

"I'm hungry."

"I'm bored."

And from Pallas, wiping a string of drool from the corner of her mouth, "This sucks!"

Yvonne understood the interrogatory was in abeyance for the time being and changed the subject. "My husband said we were to meet him at the hotel where Elayne and your mother are staying and that he'd explain when we get there."

"According to my mother, almost everyone's now in the know except Steve... he was still out of the loop as of this morning," Maddy said, adding as an afterthought, "Dammit!"

"You said it would all be straightened out before we got here, Mom!" Row accused.

"Well, it isn't. So sue me!"


	27. Chapter 27

_**Chapter 27: THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE**_

 **Thursday, November 20** **th** **…** Dora awakened to the sensation of a hundred tiny Morris dancers clogging heartily between her ears. Gummy eye boogers were stuck to her eyelashes. The roots of her hair ached. A very large fish'd expired in her mouth sometime last week. Her hands and feet had enormous lead weights attached to them. Blearily she crawled out of bed and groped her way to the loo. She wouldn't have attempted this had it not been absolutely necessary to get there... quickly. She hoped she wouldn't throw up when she brushed her teeth, which she felt she had to do immediately if not sooner.

Spying herself in the mirror, she had to clutch at the counter for balance. Horror of horrors! Hair matted and frizzy. Eyes bloodshot. And... where her nightie?! _Oh, girl... what have you done? Think! Think! Last night she had... oh no! Surely not._ Surely yes, the reflection in the mirror mocked her. You most certainly did, you wicked degenerate woman!

Still hanging onto the counter for dear life, she bent over to open the drawer where the paracetamol was kept and thought her eyeballs would fall out. It took a gargantuan effort just to open the bottle and shake a couple of tablets into her hand. Many more bounced onto the counter and went careening to the floor. Turning on the tap, she used her cupped hand to scoop water and the drugs into her mouth. Reaching for a disposable cup was too much work.

She turned on the shower faucets and stepped in, keeping the temperature as hot as she could stand it. Somehow she managed to detach the showerhead flex, dial it to hard massage and replace it the cradle, dropping it only twice. She let it pound the top of her head and the back of her neck. By the time the hot water started petering out, she began feeling more like a human being instead of a toxic waste dump on trembling legs. Towel drying her hair, she wrapped an oversize terry towel around her midriff and stepped back into the bedroom.

 **The first thing she noticed...** well, it could hardly _not_ be noticed, could it?... was the state of the bedroom. Rumpled didn't even begin to describe the condition of the bedclothes, and right there in the middle of the bed sleeping spread-eagled moonside up was Steve, also looking very much rumpled. Yesterday's clothes were strewn everywhere—bra thrown over a table lamp, panties decorated a horse statuette on the chest of drawers. Shirt, pants, socks and trainers littered the floor helter-skelter. Steve's pajama bottoms lay on the floor just inside the door to the hall and the top was hung on a bedpost. The counterpane was crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed and one corner of the fitted sheet'd come up, exposing a triangle of mattress. Dora couldn't recall when, if ever, this particular bedroom'd ever been subjected to such shenanigans! Her cheeks felt like two burning coals.

Softly, Dora retreated into her walk-in closet to dress. Retrieving her cellphone from the pants on the floor and her trainers, she tippy-toed to the door and eased it open just far enough to slide through, just as carefully shutting it behind her while hoping she hadn't woke Steve up. As soon as he came downstairs she intended to go right back up again and do some emergency damage control... before anyone else had a chance to view the scene of destruction.

At the foot of the staircase, Dora sat on the last riser to put on her trainers and compose her face into what she hoped approximated a nonchalant expression. With any luck, there'd be nobody in the kitchen and she could get to her coffee without any eyebrows being raised.

But luck was elsewhere this morning. The breakfast nook was occupied although no one seemed to be eating. A selection of platters on the table displayed unappetizingly congealed eggs, bacon, sausage and toast. As Dora approached and took her place, Miz Bee steamed over with a thunderous face to plunk down a fresh carafe of coffee and wordlessly stomped back to her work station.

" **Good morning, boys."** The intended chirp came out as a croak. Jesse, Michael and Trini muttered unenthusiastic good mornings in return. With shaky hands, Dora finally got her coffee sugared and creamed without adding too much to the spillage already evident on the tabletop.

"You're all up early," she commented.

"Mum," Jesse said wearily, "it's eleven o'clock."

Dora looked to the clock on the wall, shocked. How had she not noticed the time?! Possibly because an errant sock'd been obscuring her bedside alarm clock?

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Mum," Michael commented, "But you appear to have been dragged backwards through a hedge."

" _Comme elle était traînée dedans par le chat,"_ Trini added from behind dark shades.

"I'm sure he means that in the nicest possible way," Jesse added.

"Dragged in by the cat, eh? Thank you, my sons. I appreciate the sentiment. And for the record, all three of you look like..." Here Dora employed an expression that in living memory neither of her boys'd ever heard come out of her mouth. Over at the work counter, Miz Bee emitted an audible gasp.

Jesse and Michael gaped... was this _their_ mother speaking? Trini only grinned. Dora couldn't hold a candle to _his_ mother when she went on a tear.

" _Ma chère mère,_ I can assure you we _feel_ just as you've so succintly described," Michael finally retorted.

"Ma... I gotta ask... have you _ever_ tried pot before?" This from Jesse.

"Actually, yes," she answered, surprising him. "Once. Years ago, when your father was... when he was away for a few months. I hung around with Ron some during that time—and that's all I'm going to say about that."

"That was some prime ganja, man. Who's your supplier?" Michael asked his brother.

"No one you know and that was the lot. There won't be any more. I'm never smokin' that sh... that stuff again!"

"Hell yeah, mon... good as any weed my papa grow back on d'island," Trini added.

 **Suddenly there was Miz Bee glowering over them,** pointing a floury finger. "Out! Out of my kitchen! Go wash up and put on some decent clothes before Mister Steve sees you!"

As the three stubbled, pajamaed men obediently vacated the kitchen, Dora hoped Mister Steve washed up and put on _some_ clothes, _any_ clothes before they saw him.

"Jesse... When you're done, I'd like to see you in my study!" Dora called out after him.

He raised an arm to signify he'd heard and Dora turned to Miz Bee.

"Where are Dottie and Violet?"

"Down t'barn."

Just then Dora's cell buzzed. She didn't remember having turned down the audio. It was a text from Elayne: _'Call soonest.'_ She arose, telling Miz Bee she was going to her study to return the call and taking her coffee with her. Miz Bee told she'd do no such thing, to go on and a proper tray would be brought to her, as it should be.

"Martha... as you can plainly tell, I'm as much a victim of some rather improper behavior yesterday evening as the boys are... and I apologize on behalf of all of us... it wasn't entirely their fault."

Miz Bee, though still countenancing disapproval, merely sniffed loudly, replying, "Ye keep forgettin', Missus Dora, who's mistress here!"

Dora reached over, taking the older woman's hands in hers and giving them a squeeze. "Martha, you're a jewel! And today of all days, I need your help... first of all, when Mister Steve comes down, we need to get him out of the way for a few hours..."

"Easy enough," said the redoubtable housekeeper, going on to remind Dora that with the housecleaning service arriving at noon Steve would be, as always, making himself scarce of his own accord.

"Next, do you know of anyone who could take Violet's place on short notice? Jesse's family is arriving today with two extra people... oh, and since Trini's parents are coming, too, we'll need extra groceries. You'll have to make another trip, I'm afraid..."

Miz Bee said she knew of a local girl who might be available and that unexpected guests to feed weren't that great a difficulty as long as they remained in reasonable numbers. Dora suddenly remembered that Violet's fortune predicted the arrival of two men, not just one.

"Better plan for at least one more, just to be safe."

 **Alone at her desk a few minutes later** Dora remembered to ring Elayne back. Just as they concluded their conversation, a knock at the door produced Jesse with Miz Bee right behind him. After setting down the tray of coffee things, she withdrew without a word and closed the door firmly behind her.

"You wanted to see me?" Jesse eyed his mother warily, in expectation of a full-on wrath-of-Mum virtual thrashing. Instead, she disarmed him with a smile, an invitation to sit and an offer to pour, both of which he accepted with relief. When his mother was angry about something, she generally got right to the point and didn't waste time lathering her fly with honey before swatting it.

"About last night..." he began.

"Yes... about last night. What did you mean, bringing glass bottles of beer onto the pool deck? You know the house rules!"

"But Mum... _you_ had a bottle of wine... and glasses!"

"Do as I say, not as I do!" Dora intoned with a straight face. "And in future, please refrain from smoking marijuana in the pool enclosure. If you boys must indulge, kindly do so out in the woods or behind the barn as you used to when you were teenagers."

"Um... er... yes Mum." _She's known about that all along?_

"Furthermore... also in future... if you happen to discover any more illegitimate Rosses in the woodwork, I would appreciate being informed sooner rather than later." Dora fixed a gimlet eye on her son and he shrank back in his seat, turning pale.

"I don't know what..." _Obviously that's not gonna fly... she knows._ "He finally told, you, huh?"

" _He_ hasn't told me anything. I had to hear it from Elayne... and the others, yesterday at the clootie well. Why didn't _you_ tell me, when you first found out?"

"It wasn't my story to tell, Mum... just like I said the other day, and I'm sorry Dad didn't man up and do what he needed to do. Really, I didn't believe he'd wimp out like that..."

"Don't be disrespectful of your father!" Dora said. "He's a good man. He's always tried to do what was right, what was honorable, even at his own expense. True, it was a bit of a shock, hearing about this... but I'll come to terms with it."

"I told him you would but..."

"And show some compassion! Can't you see how frightening this must be? Family is everything to him—he'd risk his life to protect us, but this business is so far out of his experience, it's no wonder he's unable to accept it... or come to me with it. What would you do, Jesse, if you were in his shoes? How would you tell your wife?" Dora demanded.

"I don't know," Jesse stammered. "It wouldn't be easy."

"No, it would not. Now, if I understand correctly, you've already been acquainted with all aspects of our current situation... the flashbacks, the witchcraft, the spells, the visions, the prophecy?"

"Yes m'am."

"Do you believe it... or any of it?"

"I don't want to... but the evidence seems to be indicating otherwise, doesn't it?"

"Yes... and I believe it would be prudent to keep that to ourselves!"

"Uh… Mom… Mum… there might be…"

"I mean, there's no need for your father to _ever_ hear any of it, is there?"

"Well… the problem is…"

"That aside, we must come up with a scheme to slot these newcomers into our family structure with as little disturbance as possible."

"Mum… about that…"

"About what?" She sounded perturbed at being interrupted.

"I'm afraid he already knows… about the spell and stuff…"

"How could he? Who would've…?"

"I did."

"But why, Jesse?"

"He thought he was losing his mind… and now he needs assurance you aren't going leave him because of Robbie…"

"But that's absurd! Of course I wouldn't…"

"He doesn't know that, Mum. That's why he hasn't been able to tell you. You have to find a way to let him off the hook gently... let him know that you know."

"I wish you hadn't done that. We… Elayne and I… had a plan… now it's shot."

"Maybe not… let's hear it."

" **Before I get into that..."** Dora could feel her face pinking up. "Would you... could you... erm... refresh my memory about what happened yesterday evening... after Violet and I joined you at the pool?"

"Come on, Mum... you weren't _that_ stoned... were you? You only had, like, two hits! Of course, you did polish off that entire bottle of wine yourself. Violet didn't get any of it... she shared our beer."

"I'm afraid I was. I hope I didn't do anything outrageous."

"Not too outrageous... but you sure were funny. I wish Vonda coulda been there... she would've laughed 'til she puked! Violet seemed to be enjoying your performance, too, although she wasn't... ah... partaking."

"But what happened... afterwards, I mean?"

"DoDo came home, gave us what for and threw us out. Then she and Violet took you upstairs and put you to bed, as far as I know."

Dora vaguely recalled being escorted to her bedroom door, shaking off her attendants, and once inside haphazardly stripping off her clothing before weaving into the lavatory to clean her teeth and wash her face. After that, slipping on her nightie and into bed. Alone. But what then...?

It came back to her in a rush... instead of drifting off to sleep, her mind kept wandering to the other side of the bed—the empty side—and the injustice of being separated from her beloved just two doors away. She'd gotten right back up, marched down the hallway past the door to Violet's temporary bedroom, let herself into Steve's temporary bedroom and forcibly dragged him back to the marital bed. And then... and then... she'd had her way with him.

 **Now she thought about the state** in which she'd left the bedroom—and him—and the fact that the cleaners were due any minute. Her embarrassment knew no bounds. How was she going to face her husband after last night, when she'd acted in a way she'd never done before in all the years of their marriage?! And what would Violet and Dottie be thinking... having slept... or trying to sleep... on the same floor?! Surely she and Steve'd made noise... and a lot of it! Thankfully Jesse'd been spared that, having given up his bedroom to Violet and moved downstairs to the bedroom opposite his brother's and Trini's.

"When will Vonda and the girls be here?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, late. I don't know exactly what time. She'll call and let me know."

Before they could go further there was a knock at the door and Steve's voice.

"Dora... can I come in?"

She bolted out of her chair and whipped open the door.

"I... what's the matter?" He stepped into the room and put his arms around her, not noticing Jesse right away. "Are you all right?" His voice betrayed anxiety.

"I'm fine... Jesse was telling me a particularly vulgar joke, is all... but it was hilarious! He was just leaving to go fetch a box of books for me from the... erm... storage room." Inwardly Dora was appalled at how easily lies spilled from her lips when under duress. Picking up on the cue, Jesse removed himself from his chair and bade his father a good morning as he sidled by and disappeared into the hallway.

 **Steve kissed his wife** and held her at arm's length with a hand on each shoulder.

"I love you, Dora Ross..." he began, nodding his head with a silly, ear-to-ear grin on his face. "I don't know what got into us last night... but it was like we were kids again, wasn't it?"

"I love you, too," Dora agreed faintly, "And it _was_ wonderful." _And a miracle neither one of us threw our backs out._

Steve wasn't given to extended romantic interludes, however. "Sorry I missed breakfast. I heard the cleaners coming up the drive so I'll be hiding in the barns for a couple of hours after we have our ride…"

"Can't go. Vonda and the girls are coming in early… tomorrow, in fact. Martha and I have to make arrangements."

Steve's smile faltered. "Dora, there's something we need to talk about…"

"There is?" Dora held her breath in anticipation of the confession she hoped was forthcoming. But no… the shadow passed swiftly.

"Oh well… I'm sure you've a lot to do. I'll ride along with Jesse when he goes to the airport."

 _Oh no! He knows the boy and his mother will be with them... whatever is he thinking? Surely not that he can send them away and keep it a secret from me!_

Somehow he misinterpreted her expression as he removed his hands. "Don't worry... I straightened up most of the mess upstairs. Would want any gossip belowstairs, would we?"

"Steve… what about…?"

See ya when I see ya!" he quipped playfully as he turned to the door, knowing how much she hated that particular phrase and using it on purpose just to tease.

"Not if I see you first!" she called after him.

 _Dammit dammit dammit!_

 **Arrangements had to be made quickly.** Dora dialed up Julia. "Jules... can you be up here in an hour for a family conference?... I don't care if you're busy... whatever it is can wait... And bring Ian. Yes, it's important... No, no one's dying... That's what he has an assistant for, isn't it?... If you see your father, don't mention this... Because I said so... All right... see you both at one o'clock."

The next call was to Sarah. "Hi sweetie, it's Mum... Can you and Jason be here at one o'clock for a family conference?... Would I be bothering you if it wasn't important?... Yes, we'll be done in plenty of time for you to pick up the girls from school... You can?... Okay, see you then. By the way, if you happen to run into Dad, say nothing about this—it's a surprise... You'll just have to wait until you get here—I don't have time to explain."

Five minutes later, Jesse reappeared. "Dad's halfway to the barns... I watched him go. Where were we…?"

"Hold on a sec!" Dora rang Miz Bee in the kitchen on an inside line. "Martha?... Have the cleaners got started yet?... They haven't?... Good!... Please tell them to do the bottom floor first and work up, not the other way as they usually do... I need them to be done with that floor and out by one o'clock... We're having a private family conference down there... oh, and I need you to be in on it... no, Martha, not to serve, but as a participant—just tea, no food. I'll help carry it... send Denise on an errand that will keep her out of the house for at least two hours... well, I don't know... think of something... right, one o'clock."

"Aren't we going to talk about...?"

"Wait! One more call!" Punching in speed-dial, Dora caught Mr. Statham in his office. "Blair! Listen... I need you to do me a favor and not ask questions... Steve's on his way... oh, he is? Don't let on it's me... Look, I need you to keep him occupied for a few hours... take him off somewhere where he can't see the drive or anyone heading toward the house... oh, that would be perfect!.. Yes, until about three o'clock or so... Thanks... and remember... it's our little secret!"

 **Dora added another notation** to the ruled pad in front of her on the desktop.

"Mum, are you...?"

"Where's your brother and Trini?"

"Downstairs watching 'Antiques Road Show'..."

"Would you be a dear and trot down there before the cleaners run them out? Tell them not to leave the house... I've called a family conference at one o'clock to explain to everyone what's going on. The other thing is, your father intends to ride with you to pick up Vonda and the girls. Timing is essential. I want you to send the estate van ahead of time so that they and their luggage can be transferred directly from the bus and brought back here… I don't want to take a chance on someone spilling the beans prematurely."

"But… what about the boy and his mother?"

"They'll be waiting up in Elayne and Sally's suite…"

"Waiting for…?"

"To meet Steve, of course. I think it best I not be part of that initial encounter. I believe that once he's confronted with them in the flesh he'll have no recourse but to deal with the situation and present them to me…"

"Elayne and Sally?"

"They'll ride back in the van with Vonda and the girls. You take my car and bring them—Maddy and Rowan and your father—along later… after he's had sufficient time to come to grips with reality. He'll work his way through this, son… I have every confidence."

"Mum… are you sure this is the best solution?"

"It's the _only_ solution. We've run out of time."

"I'd never have pegged Dad for such a coward."

"Don't!" Dora snarled, barely restraining herself from slapping her firstborn's face. "Do NOT speak of your father that way! Even though you're right… the only reason he's been unable to bring all this into the open is _because_ of his love for me… for this family. Because he's been afraid this would tear us apart. Now go and do as I've asked…"

 **Jesse returned with a frowning Michael** in tow.

"What's this about a family conference?"

"We're having one... at one o'clock. Where's Trinidad?"

"We weren't sure if it would be appropriate for him to attend."

"After all this time, you should know better," Dora said. "Go find him right now and tell him his presence is not just desired, but specifically requested by his mother-in-law."

Beaming, Michael wheeled and left.

"Are the cleaning people downstairs?" she inquired.

"Yep. They'll be done in a jiffy."

There was another knock at the door—Violet this time.

"Just wanted to let you know we're back. Dorothy's gone upstairs to change clothes. That cow head-butted her and knocked her over into a pile of poop."

"She wasn't hurt, was she?"

"Nah... but she's kinda smelly."

"Would you go up and let her know there'll be a family conference in the big room downstairs—you included, everyone except Steve. One o'clock sharp. It probably wouldn't hurt for you to change also." A delicate aroma of barn was wafting off the girl.

"Okeydokey."

After Violet left, Jesse cocked his head at his mother in puzzlement.

"Excuse my ignorance, but why is _she_ being included in our family business?"

Dora smacked her forehead. "Oh help! I forgot... you don't know the fascinating news about our Miss Violet... yet!"

"So are you gonna tell me or what?"

Dora gave him a mischievous grin. "You know what? I don't think I'm going to... you can wait and find out just like everyone else! Serves you right for withholding information from _me!_ "

"Aw, Ma!"

 **At one o'clock (sharp)** the assemblage was complete—Julia and Ian sharing an overstuffed loveseat, Sarah in an armchair with Jason perched on one of its arms, Michael, Trini and Jesse slouched in bean bags on the floor, Dottie, and Martha and Violet occupying straight-back chairs at the card table. Dora and Steve had helped Miz Bee put the tea trolley together and brought it downstairs. Once everyone was settled with cup and saucer and all eyes turned expectantly her way, Dora stood up.

"Before I begin, let me say that no one is ill or dying or getting divorced and the family trust is not facing financial ruin."

"Where's Daddy?" Sarah asked.

"Not here, obviously... because he's the subject of this meeting."

"And why all the secrecy?" Michael chimed.

"Because I don't want him to know about it... not yet. Now please pay attention and don't interrupt until I'm done. Cutting right to the chase—in 1973 your father had an affair with a young lady of an itinerant family, which resulted in the birth of an illegitimate child the year he and I were married."

At the collective hiss of intaken breath, Dora held up a hand to forestall questions.

"The mother abandoned the child at a charity hospital in Cornwall, where he was adopted out, emigrated with his new parents to the States and was raised there in ignorance of his true heritage. In an unfortunate case of history repeating itself, he _also_ fathered a son out of wedlock. That child's name is Rowan Cameron. He's nineteen years old. You'll be meeting him this evening. So there you have it... a son and grandson your father and I never knew about until a few days ago. And that's not all...

"As you all know, Jesse's family's arriving in a few hours. Rowan and his mother are traveling with them because he and Pallas, though not formally engaged as of yet, are to be married in the not too distant future. All that will be explained later.

"I realize what a shock this comes to all of you... it certainly was to me and even more so to your father... to the extent that he's been unable to discuss it with me. In fact, he has no idea that I already know. What I'm asking now is that you set aside whatever reservations you may have and band together to help me help him face this new reality."

Everyone started talking at once and Dora clapped to regain their attention. "I'm not done." Here she beckoned to both Julia and Violet to arise and stand near each other.

"Some of you have noticed and commented on how our new maid and Julia favor each other... well, there's a very good reason for that. Violet is related to us through two lines... her -great-grandfather and yours were half-brothers... _and_... she is also your niece! Her father is the son we didn't know about… which makes her Rowan's half-sister. We don't have enough time today to go into _all_ the details or provide answers to _all_ your questions, because I want to explain how we're going to introduce your father to his new grandson and spare him the trauma of having to explain him to me..."

Dora outlined her plans and asked them to please not reveal to anyone outside the room anything of what they'd just been told. A stunned silence was immediately broken by a flurry of comments and questions directed at both Dora and at Jesse, once it was divulged that he had been the original messenger. Before anyone exited, Jesse checked in with Blair Statham to ensure Steve was preoccupied somewhere out of sight of the drive, so that his sisters and their spouses could ease on home undetected.

 **BIDING THEIR TIME**

 **Meanwhile, back at the hotel…** Hazel had helped Elayne and Sally remove all traces of witchcraftery from the Obama Suite and restore bits of furniture to their original locations. The 'situation table' had been removed earlier. Numerous trips to the lavatory with ice buckets had finally emptied the portable scrying pool. Room service had just whisked away the remains of lunch. Sprawled inelegantly on the sectional sofa, the ladies were discussing over après-lunch margaritas—in no particular order—the family conference at the Ross establishment, the northbound charter bus due to arrive at any moment, the forthcoming meeting between Steve and Rowan… and some new developments which had just come to light.

"I was under the impression, Elayne, that Robert Cameron refused to take any part in this circus," Sally was commenting to her aunt.

"Man has the right to change his mind, don't he?" Elayne responded, blinking rapidly.

"You've been meddling again, haven't you?" Sally accused.

"Who? Me? Aint my fault if that there Royal Geographical Society done offered him a wad a cash to come an' speak at some old banquet."

"And how very convenient they also offered to pay airfare not only for him but his wife and kids!" Sally scoffed.

"And how fortuitous that that dinner will be taking place right in this very hotel!" Hazel added.

"I'm deeply disappointed in you, Aunt Elayne. You promised you wouldn't do any more you-know-what unless we discussed it first!"

"I ain't admittin' nothin'!"

"How will this factor into plans already in place, Elayne?" Hazel asked.

"No idea. Ain't had time to think on it. Don't know how many more surprises Dora's capable of dealing with. Hafta say, she done surprised the heck outta me, the way she took charge an' all. D'ya realize she ain't gone on a single crying jag since we brought her to the light?"

" **I wonder how the kids are taking it...** she should be in the middle of her exposé right about now," Hazel mused, glancing at her watch.

"Well… we _could_ …" Elayne ventured with a sly glance.

"No, Elayne. Enough already. In the name of all we hold sacred, let's give this benighted family _some_ privacy!"

"But what if they reject him an' Pallas goes ahead an' marries him anyway?" Elayne insisted. "That'd cause a rift that'd hurt a awful lotta folks…"

"I'm pretty sure, auntie, that if that's what the future holds, we would already be aware of it. In any case, our involvement is limited to fulfillment of the prophecy itself… not to any random outcomes. We can't fix everything."

"I 'spose you're right, honey," Elayne grumbled. "Still… I'd sure like to hang around an' witness what happens when Steve walks in here… they wouldn't even hafta know we's here!"

"No. We're sticking to the plan. As soon as the bus gets here and Maddy and Rowan come upstairs, we three are clearing out. You and I and Yvonne and the girls and the luggage are taking the estate van out to Follymoor. Hazel, I presume you're taking your own car?"

"No. Ron's swinging by to pick me up soon as I call him. Dora left me a voice message earlier asking us to be there this evening." Hazel asked.

"Have you heard from Dottie today?" Sally asked.

"She's spent the day mostly resting in her suite so she'll be on her game for the big showdown this evening," Hazel said. "What about the others—the ones coming from California?"

"Their flight don't get in until late tonight. They's stayin' over in the City an' comin' up tomorrow."

"Are we the only ones who know about this?" Hazel inquired.

"So far," Sally responded. "Guess one of us needs to inform Jesse, huh?"

The house phone rang at the same time as Sally's cell.

"Okay. Thanks. No… don't send anyone up. Tell the driver to pull over to the passenger loading zone. We'll be right down."

Elayne returned the phone to its cradle and nodded at Sally, who was just concluding her contact.

"Excellent timing. Do you see a green van with the Follyfoot Rescue Centre logo on the door? Pull up beside it and start transferring baggage. We're on our way."

"It's showtime," she advised unnecessarily, grabbing her purse and heading for the door.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Chapter 28: A CONVERGENCE OF GENERATIONS**_

 **At the main entrance** one porter was engaged in loading Madeleine and Rowan's bags onto a dolly for transport upstairs while another assisted the two drivers in transferring the remainder of the luggage from the bus to the estate van. Yvonne was attempting to shepherd her three younger daughters into the van while at the same time conducting a restrained argument with Pallas. Madeleine and her son were maintaining a discreet distance. Elayne, Sally and Hazel stood apart as well.

"This is between Rowan and his grandfather… you're not part of it!"

"He's my granddad, too… and I know how he can be when things don't go his way!"

"It's not your business, young lady!"

"Excuse me? Row IS my business."

The three younger sisters were entranced at the sight of mother and daughter going at it… sure, they'd had their differences before but outright rebellion wasn't Pallas' way. She preferred wearing down the parental units down with rhetoric and/or logic until they gave in through sheer weariness.

"What's going on?" Sally asked, sidling up to Madeleine. "Should we… ah… interfere?"

"Not in _your_ way, Mother," Maddy cautioned. "Best we don't. Vonda thinks this needs to be a boys-only affair… and I think she's right."

"Oh? What about you then? Aren't you staying?"

"Actually, I'm thinking I'll go hang out in the bar until someone comes for me."

Sally turned to her grandson. "Row, what are your thoughts? Do you want either of them there?"

"Looks to me like everyone else is doing such a great job of minding my business for me, why the hell do you need my opinion?" His tone was caustic.

"Rowan!" Maddy admonished. "No call for rudeness to your grandmother!"

"Sorry." He didn't appear to be particularly sorry, however. He turned to Pallas.

"They're right, you know. I want him to be honest and open with me about his feelings… and he won't be if you're there."

"But what if…?"

"The worst that can happen is that he could refuse to acknowledge me… and if so… well, it doesn't change anything between us…"

"I'm not leaving!"

 **Elayne and Sally** walked over to the warring pair.

"May I suggest a compromise?" Sally interrupted. "How about this? Pallas and I'll wait in the bar for Madeleine to join us. The rest of you go on ahead."

"I don't know," Vonda objected. "She's not twenty-one..."

"No problem… legal age is eighteen here," Sally said.

"That'll leave five of us to ride back to the house," Pallas the practical pointed out. "We won't all fit in one car."

"I don't have to leave straight away," Hazel jumped in. "I'll just put off calling Ron until we're all ready to leave… Sally and Jesse can go with us. Steve can drive the Captiva back with Maddy and the kids."

While not exactly satisfied with the plan, Pallas agreed. At least she'd be close at hand to console Row if the introduction didn't go well. She was still muttering as Sally and Hazel led her away. Maddy took her son's arm and turned toward the lobby entrance, Pallas and Sally

"Y'all'd better get a move on… the boys'll be gallopin' along any minute now," Elayne called after them as she climbed into the waiting estate wagon. "Obama Suite… the concierge'll see you up."

 **Ten minutes out from Harrogate,** Steve was vacillating between irritation and curiosity ever since they'd passed the interchange to Manchester and instead kept right toward Harrogate.

"This isn't the way to the airport, son."

"I know that, Dad."

"Where are you taking us? Won't Yvonne and the kids be upset when we're not there to pick them up?"

"They're not at the airport… they decided to drive up from the city. We're to meet them at Elayne's hotel."

"What about…?" Steve couldn't quite bring himself to say the name.

"He's there. And his mother. I sent the estate van ahead to get Vonda and the Peas and bring them back to Follymoor. You and I're going to meet privately with Rowan."

"I see. Might I ask why the change in plans?"

"You may. And the answer is, because you couldn't hold up your end of the bargain and discuss what needed to be discussed with your wife in a timely manner."

"I'm not liking your tone."

"And I'm not liking having to shovel up your mess, Dad. This is the best arrangement I could make. You get to meet each other and you either hit it off… or you don't. If you don't… well… he goes back to the States and you never have to deal with him again. Of course, I hope you realize that'll mean estranging yourself from Pallas as well. You'll break her heart and she'll never forgive you."

A long silence prevailed from the passenger seat as their ETA clicked down to five minutes. Traffic'd picked up and Jesse was forced to keep his attention on the road.

"This isn't entirely _my_ fault,you know," Steve finally uttered. "I get that it was my mistake… but I resent being held hostage to a situation I knew nothing about for over forty years. What if the boy doesn't take to me… or to Dora? What if she doesn't take to him? Or your brother and sisters? Will I be to blame for that as well?"

They turned a corner and onto the drive meandering uphill though lavish landscaping toward the imposing bulk of the hotel on the crest of its knoll. Jesse pulled his mother's Captiva under the portico, surrendering the keys to the valet as he and his father disembarked. As they entered through the double doors, the concierge scooted around the reception desk to greet them, bowing unctuously.

"Mr. Ross, sir… and… er… Mr. Ross. So very nice to see you. Your parties are awaiting you upstairs… if you'll follow me…?"

 **Except for residents, access to the luxury suites** on the top floor was restricted by elevator key card held by the concierge. Even though he knew the way, Steve and his son followed the man to the elevator banks. At the suite's door, the concierge pressed the call button for them as if they were incapable of performing this action for themselves, then scurried away as the door swung open.

The operator of the door was a slender middle-aged woman wearing a beige cashmere jumper and tan slacks with sensible low-heeled shoes. Simple gold hoop earrings gleamed under lustrous brown hair fashioned into a double knot. Wide-set green eyes with faint epicanthic folds were set off by prominent high cheekbones. What little makeup she wore was obviously not intended to camouflage the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Steve was struck dumb not just by her beauty, but the certain knowledge—however improbable or impossible—that he'd met this woman before… a long time ago.

"Gentlemen… please do come in." She stepped back with a dazzling smile and gestured toward the lounge.

Jesse astounded his father by stepping forward and kissing the woman on the cheek in a most familiar manner before making introductions.

"Dad, this is Madeleine Camerata... Rowan's mother. Maddy, this is my father, Steve Ross."

"Do call me Maddy." She offered her hand. "May I call you Steve?"

"Oh… yes… please," Steve fumbled. He'd been so focused on meeting the boy he'd completely overlooked the fact he'd be making the mother's acquaintance as well. She looked nothing at all like the 'Indian squaw' of his imaginings!

 **As Maddy took his arm to guide him** to the seating area, Steve made two observations—the totally tasteless décor surrounding them… and the absence of any male besides himself and Jesse. The men settled on the zebra skin sofa as she waved toward a bamboo credenza holding a drinks tray with an assortment of liquors and a silver tea service.

"There's coffee as well. Help yourselves while..." Maddy paused, addressing herself to Steve. "I hope you won't judge Rowan's demeanor too harshly, Steve. He's really quite nervous about meeting you. He's been in the bathroom throwing up for the past half hour. I'll just go and see if he's done now."

After Maddy'd closed the bedroom door behind her, Steve chuckled.

"What? You think that's funny?" Jesse whispered fiercely.

"Not that he's sicked up… no. Just that I sympathize! Feel like doing exactly that myself. Right here. On this woven grass-mat rug that's so hideous no one would even notice!"

"Dad!"

"Don't worry… I'm not going to."

 **The bedroom door opened** and Rowan came out, composed if a little pale. Steve slowly stood up. Even though he'd thought himself prepared, the resemblance was still unnerving. He could've been looking at Jesse, or Michael… or himself in the mirror years ago. He experienced a fleeting moment of panic as he realized he was probably expected to make the first overture… and that he'd completely forgotten his much-rehearsed welcoming speech.

Without realizing he'd done so, Steve stepped around the coffee table and advanced to the center of the room. Rowan likewise took enough steps forward to place them within strike distance. From their respective positions, Jesse and Madeleine held their breaths as grandfather and grandson took stock of each other before engaging in the age-old ritual of clasping right hands. Steve offered first…

"Um… I really don't know what to say…"

"Me neither, sir…"

" 'Nice to meet you' seems rather… tepid."

"I know what you mean. What should I call you? Somehow _Grandfather_ doesn't seem…appropriate."

"Oh… er… what do you call your other grandfather?"

"Boo… that's his nickname. His name's Bernard."

One of those mini-lightning strikes of recollection pierced Steve's consciousness. "Steve will do, then. I don't have a nickname."

"Okay… Steve…"

As their right hands disengaged, Steve found his rising to rest on the young man's shoulder. "Now that I know about you, I'm very glad you're here." Tentative smiles broke out on both their faces and audible sighs of relief were expelled by Maddy and Jesse.

Picking up her purse and a wrap, Maddy migrated toward the door. "I'm going to join the others in the bar while you three gentlemen have a get-acquainted chat. Jesse… I'll give you a buzz when Ron gets here with the other car. We'll meet you in the lobby." And then she was gone.

 **Jesse suddenly realized** he'd been thrust into the role of moderator. "Why don't we… ah… sit down and talk for a bit. What can I get you to drink?"

As much as Steve would've liked a double shot of Scotch courage, he didn't want to be sending the wrong message to the boy and so opted for tea. Rowan chose coffee. Jesse removed the tray from the credenza and carried it to a service table around which clustered three easy chairs. That way none of them would have to turn their heads. Reestablished in this more conversation-friendly configuration of seats, Steve tried very hard to appear relaxed, reminding himself that the kid was probably equally as leery of putting the wrong foot forward…. that it was up to him, as the elder, to make the boy feel welcome.

Steve compared the living, breathing version of this Ross scion to the two-dimensional image he'd been carrying around for days. He and his children were all light-complected and had to work at acquiring a tan—Rowan's coloring was noticeably darker. Steve, Jesse and Julia's eyes were such a dark brown that the pupil was almost indistinguishable from the iris—Rowan's were a lambent amber. The thick eyebrows and generous mouth were unmistakably Ross but the nose and cheekbones more prominent. And if the maternal grandfather was the person Steve was now sure he was, that would account for the youngster's broader shoulders and more compact build.

At a very pointed eyebrow-lift from Jesse, Steve endeavored to alleviate the awkward silence that ensued.

"So… you're planning to marry my granddaughter…?" _Well, damn it!_ That hadn't come out at all the way he'd meant it.

"Dad…" Jesse's voice held a note of warning.

Rowan's coffee cup rattled as he returned it to its saucer. "That was the plan, yes. Before all this… before we knew…" The unspoken question being _do you have a problem with this?_

" **If I might explain…"** Steve decided honesty was the best policy here. "When Jesse first brought this situation to my… ah… attention, I was under the impression that you were _his_ child… which would make Pallas your half-sister. So, yes… I was upset. Now that I've got the big picture, I've no objection whatsoever. In fact, it's my opinion you make a lovely couple. I'm sure Dora will agree…" _Oh dear… that brings up another issue…_

"Dora's your… Jesse's mother… my wife…"

Rowan interrupted. "Sir… with your permission, and unless _she_ prefers otherwise, I'd prefer to regard her as my _other_ grandmother. Later she can decide how she'd like to be called…"

Steve frowned. "Ah… about that… you see, she doesn't know…"

Jesse stopped him. "Dad… there's something I need to tell you… _she already knows_."

"Excuse me?"

"Mom knows… about Rowan… about everything…"

"What? When… how long…?"

"I swear I didn't tell her, but she found out anyway. And she's okay with it. Really." _Please, please, please let him hold it together!_

"I see… and the rest of the family?"

"As of earlier today, yes… all of us."

Jesse held his breath as he watched the emotions parade across his father's face… anger, disbelief, acceptance… resignation and relief.

" **Left me to twist in the wind,** did you? I suppose I deserved that…"

Rowan was looking from one to the other with curiosity. "Have I missed something?"

"Your grandfather's been too afraid to tell his wife about the lapse in judgment over forty years ago that resulted in your father…"

"Which I only found out about this week!" Steve interjected.

Rowan shrugged. "I'm one of those lapses myself… but _my_ stepmother's _always_ known about me."

Jesse gave him the hairy eyeball. "Indeed. And hopefully you won't suffer one with my daughter."

Rowan's already pale face went a shade whiter. "Sir! I… we…"

Jesse waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You think I don't remember what her mother and I got up to in the dorms back in our day? Just be careful, is all I'm saying."

"Sir… yes, sir… we will… we are…"

Steve was too embarrassed to contribute. In _his_ day… and even now… men simply did _not_ discuss with other men such issues as birth control. That a father could so nonchalantly even mention the matter to his daughter's lover! Beyond the pale, that was… shocking beyond measure! In desperation he changed the subject…

"I suppose your mother's organized a welcoming party back at the house…" More of a statement than a question, directed at Jesse.

"Everyone's already there except us and the ladies waiting on us downstairs."

"Then we should be going soon…" Steve said gloomily.

"We'll give it a few more minutes… Row, is there anything you'd like to know before we throw ourselves to the wolf pack?"

"Yes. I'd like to know about my biological grandmother, the gypsy girl…"

 **The story of Steve's involvement** with Tina Shaw took little time to tell.

"They travelled in small bands in those days, some of them still in horse-drawn caravans. Then as now they were unwelcome no matter where they camped so they never stayed in one place very long. This group's horses'd taken sick—Tina approached us for help. They were obliged to remain nearby while we doctored the animals until they recovered. The band moved on and never passed our way again."

"What was she like, Tina?"

"Very beautiful… graceful. I do believe there was genuine affection between us—although we were too young and foolish to consider the consequences… which doesn't excuse me from having taken advantage of an underage girl. She probably didn't discover she was with child until many weeks later. If I'd known, I would've tried to do the right thing by her."

"If _anybody_ had known you'd have either gone to jail or the men in band would've come looking for you," Jesse observed.

"If you were in love with her, why didn't you ask her to stay?" Row asked softly.

"She told Dora she was already promised to someone else… and I believed her."

"There's no possibility of tracing her… that family?"

Jesse cut in. "After more than forty years? Highly unlikely. "Women who've concealed births out of wedlock generally don't want that publicized by offspring seeking birth parents. Even if we _could_ trace her, any inquiries now would be met with silence. The Romani are distrustful and secretive… for good reason."

The house phone rang. Jesse answered, spoke a few words and hung up.

"That was Maddy. Time to go. Ron's here and Hazel's having our car brought around…"

 **The upstairs contingent exited the elevator** just as Sally, Madeleine, Pallas and Hazel drifted into the lobby. At curbside Sally was quickly introduced to Steve before they sorted themselves into two vehicles. The feeling of _déjà vu_ that'd swept over Steve earlier returned with full force as the older version of Madeleine shot him a surreptitious wink.

"Haven't we…?" he began uncertainly.

"Forty years ago… I wouldn't expect you to remember. You knew me as Solánge, however…"

Steve gulped as a handful of pieces of the missing-week puzzle slotted into place with crystal-clear clarity. "So _that's_ why Madeleine seemed so familiar!"

"She does favor me at that age, yes."

"I have a feeling there's more than just coincidence involved here."

Sally smiled sweetly. "And you'd be right… but now's not the time to talk about it."

 **Before accompanying Sally** to the Stryker's vehicle, Jesse handed over the Captiva's keys to his father. Rowan and Pallas climbed into the rear seat. There was confusion and laughter as Maddy confronted a steering wheel rather than the front passenger seat.

"Ooops... forgot. My bad!"

Intending to take the longer 'scenic route' home, Steve waved Ron to go on ahead. As cityscape transitioned to open country, any lingering worries Steve might have harbored about carrying on a conversation with Maddy evaporated. At the last knoll preceding the approach to Follyfoot's entrance gate, he pulled off onto the verge and they all got out so that the first-time visitors could fully admire the view. Long shadows cast by the setting sun set the sepia-toned landscape in sharp relief. Even as they stood there the sun sank below the horizon and the shadows vanished. Sparkling like so many gems, lights were beginning to come on in the buildings and along the drive. The air was crisp with the tang of autumn. Rowan and Pallas discreetly meandered out of earshot of their respective parents.

" **I suppose you've been apprised** of my cowardly behavior in this business…" Steve began awkwardly. "I know I should've gone to my wife right away… but…"

"I understand… I do. But that doesn't matter now that she's fully aware… and accepting… of the circumstances…"

"How could you know that? You've not yet met her," Steve protested.

"The world is smaller than you think, Steve. Your Dora's long-time friend Elayne is my great-aunt. Her niece is my mother Sally."

"They're the ones who told her all about…"

"I'm afraid so… yes. Please don't be angry with them… they only wanted to smooth the path for both of you so it wouldn't come as such a shock. Please try to understand…"

Steve resolutely choked back the ember of resentment that threatened to leap back to life, choosing his words carefully. "Though it's not in her nature to be rude, Dora's always been somewhat reticent and shy with people she doesn't know well. I hope you won't take that personally. It's just her way. I don't mean to imply that she'll be uncivil to you… or to your… to Rowan or his father, should he decide to come forward… but I can't promise that she isn't feeling… well, just a little unhappy."

Maddy nodded. "Couldn't blame her. I'd be, too, were I in her shoes. As for Robert… I believe that after he's done some serious soul-searching he'll come around." She reached over and took Steve's hand. "So let's keep our hopes up. In the meantime, we'll all have to be patient and allow him to come to an accommodation in his own way and in his own time."

Walking back to the car and wondering if he was going dotty in his advancing age, Steve reflected on the fact that in the past forty-eight hours he'd openly disclosed more of his private innermost feelings than in all of his previous years combined.

"At the time I met Dora I was just about Rowan's age and had already experienced a lifetime of rejection and failure. Dora also felt unwanted, but she had something I didn't—a profound realization of how repeated rejection shapes one's attitudes. In her case, that resulted in a great desire to help others. I never really understood why I was always so angry at the world. I couldn't and wouldn't let anyone get close. Dora got me away from all that. She literally saved my life. She's a wonderful human being and I love her dearly."

"I'm looking forward to meeting her," Maddy said… and meant it.


	29. Chapter 29

_**Chapter 29: COUNTDOWN**_

 **Reengaging gears,** Steve got back onto the road. In a few short minutes they were pulling up behind the van, where Michael and Trini were offloading the last of the luggage. Opening the door for Madeleine and taking her arm, Steve was pleased to note both young men'd dressed up for the occasion in slacks and polo shirts and were even wearing shoes and socks. Dora's directive, no doubt.

Pallas'd scrambled out first and flung herself at the two, giving each a fierce hug before turning to Rowan. "Row… these are my… _our_ … uncles, Mike and Trini."

With the introduction of Madeleine and a round of handshakes, Steve made to usher them through the side door with an apology. "There's an actual front door but we never use it… this one's more practical."

Just then the door opened, disgorging Jesse, Jason and Ian. More introductions and handshakes ensued. With each man carrying a piece of luggage they formed a processional down the east hallway toward the source of laughter and animated chatter. At the staircase landing, Steve instructed the bearers to pile everything in the hall. "Some goes upstairs and some down… we'll sort it later."

 **Rowan experienced a moment** of disconnect as a polite hush fell over the sea of expectant faces turned his way, adults and children alike. He had to remind himself this was no different from a gathering of the clan back home… except he'd grown up with _those_ people and knew every face. He'd thought he was prepared… but he wasn't… not really. He sought reassurance in the faces he _did_ know—Jesse and Yvonne and their three younger daughters, his grandmother Sally and great-aunt Elayne. Beside him Pallas gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. On his other side, still holding on to Madeleine's hand, Steve draped an arm over his shoulder.

"Everyone… please make welcome our newest family members—Rowan Cameron and his mother, Madeleine Camerata." There was no trace of fear or hesitation in the resonant voice. Expressions of relief were quickly followed by smiles and clapping hands as the smallest of the little red-haired girls darted forward with a bouquet of flowers for 'Aunt Maddy'.

So far, so good, Rowan thought, but the major hurdle was still to overcome. On the other side of the room with their backs to the plate glass Sally and Elayne stood on either side of a figure that could only be the matriarch of the family. Rowan felt himself being drawn in that direction by Pallas.

" **Row, allow me to present** _our_ grandmother, Dora Maddocks Ross…" Pallas announced.

Feeling slightly foolish, Row bowed—something he wouldn't normally have done in American society—murmuring, "Mrs. Ross…"

The lady cocked her head and smiled with amusement, holding out a small hand. "Well now… I was hoping for something a bit less formal… GranDora, perhaps? Or just plain Dora, if you're more comfortable with that."

Suddenly seized by wild inspiration, Row gently took the offered hand, bowing over it and brushing her knuckles with his lips. Still holding it, he straightened up and laid a killer grin on her.

" _Je suis enchanté pour vous rencontrer, grand-mère Dora."_

Dora looked down at their joined hands, up at his face in mute astonishment, back down again. When she raised her head the second time, her eyes'd filled with tears. Disengaging her hand to softly touch his cheek, she leaned forward and embraced him.

Collectively held breaths were expelled in unison. Someone shouted "Hear Hear!" Soon all were cheering and clapping. Steve sagged against the piano in sheer relief that the battle'd been won without a shot being fired.

 **Steve pulled Maddy forward** to be introduced to his wife, after which he and Dora took Maddy's and Rowan's arms to escort them around the room to be personally introduced to each member of their new family. Miz Bee steamed in to announce that dinner would be served in half an hour, buffet-style from the sideboard.

Hours later the party wound down as those with homes to go to took their leave. The delicate question of where certain individuals would be sleeping resolved itself when Pallas and Rowan announced they would be bedding down on air mattresses in the open bay downstairs—along with her three sisters and his one. With Michael and Trini right around the corner in one guestroom and Jesse and Vonda in the other, no proprieties would be violated. Maddy was assigned Violet's now vacated upstairs guest room and Sally and Elayne elected to share the spare one.

Closing the door to their own bedroom, Steve reached for Dora's hand, asking humbly, "Will it be all right, do you think?"

She cocked her head at him. "Don't think you've heard the last of this." At his look of abject misery, she recanted. "But in the meantime… yes… I believe it will. Let's go to bed… I'm exhausted and we've another week to go before the grand fête."


	30. Chapter 30

_**Chapter 30: GIRL TALK**_

 **Friday, November 21** **st** **…** Maddy came downstairs to a quiet house, tracking the aroma of freshly brewed coffee to find only Dora, Steve and Jess at the breakfast table.

"Are the lovebirds already up?" she inquired, pouring a mug and taking a seat.

"Up, fed and gone to the stables—along with Violet, Mike and Trini," Steve said.

"Vonda and the other girls are still sleeping," Jesse said. "They were tuckered out after yesterday."

"You have a lovely home," Maddy said. "Vonda did tell me it was patterned after Telemark Lodge. I have to admit I couldn't envision that fitting into countryside England… but it's perfect! Who all actually lives here?"

Dora answered. "Just Steve and myself and Dottie. Julia and Ian have the first house on the left as you enter the gates. Sarah and Jason and their children live in the next house along the drive. Michael and Trini live in France and are just visiting for the occasion."

"I take it the big stone house we passed on the way in is the original farmhouse?"

"Yes… Hollin Hall. In the end we couldn't bring ourselves to have it torn down, so it's been converted to a residence facility for our maintenance staff. We'll be going down there shortly for our morning ride, if you're interested…"

"I'd love to… but I wouldn't want to intrude…"

"Not at all… wouldn't you like some breakfast first?"

"No thanks. I'm good to go."

Steve stood up first. "Shall we? It's just a five-minute walk. Jesse… you coming?"

"Not today, thanks… I'll hang around here until my girls get up…"

"As you wish."

 **The three took their time strolling downhill** on this fine, crisp November morning, with patches of frost still clinging to shaded areas.

"I gather Follyfoot is some sort of retirement home and sanctuary for horses?" Madeleine remarked.

"Yes," Dora replied, "Horses too old to ride or work, and those that have been removed from their owners due to abuse or neglect. The farm was given to me by my uncle, before we inherited his estate. We underwrite most of the costs of running it but we do accept assistance from non-profit animal welfare societies and private individuals. Julia, who's our family financier, keeps an entirely separate set of books for Follyfoot. It's one of the oldest facilities of its kind in the country and we're quite proud of it."

"How many horses are you keeping now?"

Steve answered this time, looking to Dora for verification. "Other than our personal mounts, I believe there are around forty at this time, including ponies. The number changes on a weekly basis—attrition due to old age and other natural causes. If we're able to rehabilitate a sick or injured animal and it regains enough health to be suitable for riding or driving, we donate it to another charitable or social organization."

"Riding for the disabled has become quite popular, and they're always needing slow, steady mounts but rarely have any money to buy suitable stock," Dora continued. "We had the original stable blocks and hay barn demolished and replaced with two large barns, one with loose boxes and one for loafing. Easier to maintain and cheaper to heat and ventilate. The older animals need more protection from inclement weather. All our full-time stablehands are retired horsemen or animal handlers. We do have a few younger lads that work part-time after school and on weekends."

"And who's in charge of all that?"

"Oh, I'm titular General Operations Manager," Steve laughed, "…with close oversight by Dora. But frankly, Julia manages the day-to-day business."

"I understand you used to board and train as well?"

"We tried that in the old days but it became more than we could manage."

 **Arriving at the South Barn,** the threesome was met by Mr. Statham, holding the leads to Jerrik and Fancy. Just as Dora was about to request he bring around a third mount, Steve's cell phone rang. He listened for a minute then rung off.

"Blast and damn. That was Jules. I forgot we had an appointment at the solicitor's this morning. I have to go back to the house straightaway and change clothes. Sorry, ladies!" He turned and loped back toward the drive.

Maddy was already looking over Jerrik with great interest. "I've never seen a leopard-spot Appaloosa with markings as pronounced as this one…"

"He's a Knabstrupper… from Denmark—Steve's pet but I'm sure he won't mind you riding him. The mare's Julia's but she hardly ever has the time to ride anymore."

Once in the saddle, the two women rode through the paddock toward the drive. Elderly stablehands obligingly opened and closed gates for them. Dora led the way across the road and onto the trail to the hidden pond, where they dismounted and sat on the bank. Dora explained the significance of the clootie well and its occupant. Maddy knelt and dipped her hand into the water, holding it there for a moment.

"Yes… I can feel her. She's pleased that it's all turned out for the best…"

"Has it?" Dora's voice trailed off and a cloud seemed to pass over her face. "Follyfoot is everything I ever hoped and dreamed… I've been so happy here… most of the time…"

"Don't be afraid to say what's in your heart," Maddy offered softly. "I know this has been difficult for you… with Robbie and Rowan, I mean… and what _we_ are—Elayne, Sally, myself."

"Yes, yes it has been. I will... I _am_ coping but still, it was a shock. It shouldn't have been, I suppose. These things happen. I knew all those years ago that Steve was involved with that girl. But then it was over and done with and we were married. I can truthfully say that something like this has never crossed my mind. I only wish… it would've been better had I known all along… not just about Robbie and Rowan, but the… other …"

"Would it have made a difference?"

"Oh yes… no… I don't know. I did have some forewarning… indoctrination, if you will… into the world of the… beyond reality… thanks to your father, you see. Of course, I didn't really believe any of it at the time."

Madeleine had, of course, read her father's journal years ago… but was curious to hear how Dora's recollection measured up to _his_ version. What if the older woman were about to divulge some detail that Bernard'd conveniently omitted from his field notes? Something that could prove devastating to her own family? So she simply said, "Oh?"

"Here's where we met, you know. He was with us only one week but he changed the course of our lives—mine and Steve's. If not for him we would never have married. I thought I'd never forget him but I did… for forty years… until last week. Now I know why, of course…"

"May I ask, Dora… did you and my father…?"

"What? Oh good heavens _NO!_ If he'd been less honorable, it might've happened… I _wanted_ it to happen, but it didn't. And I'd _no_ idea he was married… and to Solánge, of all people. Omigosh… I'd never have been able to face her! I don't know that I can face her _now…_ "

Maddy patted her on the back. "Please don't worry about it, Dora. Mama knows about the kiss. She knew then. In a way it was part of the mission. Anyway… it was such a long time ago. What matters now is the future… Rowan and Pallas. The prophecy will be fulfilled and all will be right with both our worlds. Cheer up!"

Dora managed a wan smile. "I have to admit, the idea of instant grandson is growing on me by the minute. And he's splendid, Maddy. You and your... Robbie... have done a wonderful job."

"Thank you. The credit really goes to Mom and Dad, though."

"Do you think it's possible Robbie might someday consent to meet his father?"

Maddy shrugged. "Anything's possible. But it wouldn't do to press him. I believe he'll come around of his own accord… eventually."

"What about his… and Violet's… mum? Is she… are you…?"

"Friends? Yes. Margarita's on our side in this matter and she's not going to let it drop. She'll be tickled pink to find out Robbie's half-gypsy like herself—something I suspect her great-grandmother Alícia has known right from the beginning. Maggie is proud of her heritage and wants her daughters to be fully aware and appreciative of it as well."

Dora rolled her eyes. "And when do we get to meet the _other_ granddaughters?"

Madeleine sighed. "I guess that depends on how persuasive Rita is with Robbie."

" **Violet's already explained** about her family. Would you tell me a little of yourself and yours?" Dora asked at length.

"Hmnnn, well... My mother's family is Metís, which isn't a tribe, strictly speaking—we don't have an official government reservation. 'Metís' means 'halfbreed' or 'multiracial' and as an ethnic minority we're comprised of many different mixtures of North American aborigine and European—mostly Cree and French-Canadian. My mother was born in Canada but emigrated to Wyoming where she met my father. Later they moved to Montana where all us children were born. Parents and both sets of grandparents are still living and healthy. I'm the youngest of nine. We speak French and English at home. The old people speak Michif and French. They know English but are too stubborn to admit it."

"Nine children!" Dora marveled. "I can't begin to imagine having that many babies!"

"Imagine having eight brothers and sisters—I never had a room of my own before Rowan was born and I was barely sixteen then! Fortunately, our folks are very broadminded and _laissez faire_ in that department. In fact, most of my brothers and sisters've had after-the-fact ceremonies. My folks kept Rowan while I finished high school, and the following years until I obtained my doctorate. Most of the family still lives in the co-operative, in separate homes but all on tribal-owned land. Papa was a university professor, retired now, and Mama raised children. Still raising children, when you get down to it. My siblings are untiringly prolific and still producing regularly—I've lost count. There'll probably be two or three more great-grandchildren as well by the time I get home."

"But you have just one?"

"Just the one," Maddy sighed. "I never married."

"But... Rowan looks more like a native than you do."

"I wondered about that myself until we discovered the gypsy connection… and I met Jesse and now Steve." Maddy chuckled. "I'll tell you, Dora, that herd sire of yours certainly has stamped his image on his get! If Steve were a racehorse you'd have made a mint."

For some reason Dora found this metaphor exceedingly funny and burst out laughing. They remounted, following the path around the pond until they emerged from the tree tunnel and cantered up the slope past the house. At the top of the hill they stopped to admire the vista.

"I thought all Native Americans had brown eyes," Dora commented.

"Not all, no. It depends on how much white blood you've got. My siblings and I all take after Mama in the hair and skin department, but Papa's white and we've all got his green eyes. He says he has no native blood, though his skin's a little darker than most white people. Mama claims he's a shaman... a medicine man... in a white man's body."

Something tickled in the far recesses of Dora's memory and then receded. "I'm not sure how our families will mesh, but I do know that I very much want that. You will be staying for the party next week, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"In fact, I'd like for you both to stay as long as you like."

"And I accept your invitation although we have to be back by the first of August for pre-term prep and orientation."

" **Let's walk the horses for a while, shall we?** I'd really like your opinion on… well… on Pallas and Rowan's… er… situation."

Maddy frowned. "Well, they're awfully young but who am I to sit in judgment? Vonda and I've counseled them about not rushing into things. They're intelligent kids, though, and we believe they're smart enough to know they should finish their educations and get established in careers first. And one can't discount the possibility that they might move on and away from each other in a couple of years."

"What about the consanguinity issue—their being first cousins and all?"

"Half first cousins," Maddy corrected. "We've researched that and it's no longer the social or genetic barrier it used to be. They can't marry in Montana, where state law prohibits unions between cousins. But the validity of such a marriage would be recognized if it took place in some other state—or country—where it's legal."

Dora suddenly realized that she was already bonding with this new _de facto_ daughter-in-law, that she was feeling quite comfortable with the woman and was hoping they could become fast friends. She glanced at her watch. "Oh my! Is that the time? We should head back or we'll be late for lunch."

 **In the days following,** the excitement of Rowan's introduction to the family settled into rounds of visitations, luncheons, sightseeing tours, pool parties and other activities that kept the young people entertained. Dora reluctantly turned her attention back to the business of anniversary planning—but with the assistance of Sally and Maddy Camerata it was much less burdensome. Mr. and Mrs. Roussel, Trini's parents, arrived from Barbados along with a full complement of his siblings. All were installed at the Branson Royaume-Virgin Hotel.

Dora and Steve resumed their morning rides, accompanied by Maddy. Mac and Jonah usually had coffee waiting for them at the Hall while someone brought up the horses, but—on Thursday—the threesome found their entrance blocked by the one-armed cook. "Sorry, Mr. Steve, Miz Dora… this establishment is off-limits today! Miz Julia's orders!"

"What are you talking about?" Steve demanded.

"Oh dear…" Dora cut in, "I'm afraid I forgot to tell you… we're having dinner down here with the men tonight… special occasion."

"What special occasion?"

"It's a surprise, I'm told. Don't be a spoilsport, Steve. Come away."

Steve wasn't mollified, turning to Maddy. "Do _you_ have any idea what this do tonight is all about?"

Maddy gave them a sly grin. "Not exactly… but let me hazard a wild guess. You do know, don't you, that this is Thanksgiving Day for us in the States?"

"Is it?"

"I have a feeling we're about to experience the English version of a traditional American national holiday dinner."

As it happened, Maddy was absolutely dead on target. That evening the residents of Hollin Hall and their guests enjoyed roast turkey with sage stuffing, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots, parsnips, sautéed mushrooms, cranberry sauce, yeast rolls with butter and an assortment of flaming afters alien to American palates. No candied yams, sweet potato soufflé, green bean casserole, cornbread, corn on the cob, pecan pie or apple pie with ice cream appeared on the menu… but no one complained.


	31. Chapter 31

_**Chapter 31: SHOWTIME**_

 **Saturday, November 29th** dawned fine and bright. The caterers arrived along with the photographer who had been engaged for the next day as well. Both Miz Bees were informed—to their great consternation—that they were to be honored guests and strictly forbidden to enter 'their kitchen' although they were given leeway to organize Estelle and two young girls from the village who'd been hired for the occasion. The party officially kicked off at noon. The entire Stryker clan was in attendance. The Roussels charmed the socks off everyone with their exotic accents. Elaine, restored to her normal haute-coutured self with an elegant chignon, regaled everyone with her usual Texas flamboyance. The Visitor Centre was closed for the day and a round dozen village youngsters hired to mind the livestock so that all the FollyFellows could be free to attend the festivities. Friends and neighbors abounded.

Dora sparkled in a yellow flowered sundress and Steve'd been reluctantly coaxed out of his customary casual attire into black dress trousers and a white raw silk shirt. Prone to putting off barber visits until his hair curled over his shirt collar, he'd even persuaded to go for a trim by his insistent wife. It wasn't very much shorter now. How handsome he still was, she thought, not seeing steel gray hair and lines or wrinkles but the wide smile and dark eyes, with their hidden depths, that had captured her heart so long ago. Around her revolved her beloved family, old and new.

 **On the other side of the house,** unseen by the party in progress, a hired Mercedes rolled up. After parking in the one remaining empty slot, two men got out of the front seat. One was dark-haired and brown-eyed, casually but neatly attired in a sports jacket. The other, similarly dressed, was shorter, with silver hair and green eyes. From the rear seat emerged a woman and two young girls, all three in flowing ankle-length sundresses. Gold hoop earrings flashed through their long curly black locks. The dark-haired man approached the side door, taking in his surroundings as he waited for someone to answer the doorbell. A snub-nosed freckle-faced girl in a pinny cautiously opened the door and poked her head out, looking him up and down in bewilderment. Her eyes flared as she took in the rest of the arrivals.

"Why Mr. Jesse, whatever are you doing out here? I thought you was out back with t'others?" She stepped back and motioned to him to enter.

"I believe I'm attending a party... and my name's Robert, not Jesse. And you are...?"

"Why, it's Estelle, sir... as you well know."

He hesitated. "I'm Dr. Robert Cameron. From America? Here to see Mrs. and Mrs. Steven Ross?"

The girl was looking really confused now. "You'd best come in then, sir. All of you… and follow me, if you would?"

Just inside the door, he stopped. "Just a moment. Do know if Rowan Cameron's here… or his mother?"

"Yes sir… both of 'em's here. Shall I go an' fetch 'em for you?"

"If you would, please..."

The perplexed Estelle trotted down the hallway toward the greatroom, glancing over her shoulder at this confounding development.

At the end of the hall a multitude of people were milling about. None of them had noticed the arrivals. Estelle disappeared into the throng. Two minutes later Maddy threaded her way out. Her mouth fell open when she saw who awaited her.

"Robbie? Rita? Daddy? Omigod!" She rushed forward and hugged each in turn. "I didn't think you were coming, Rob."

"Wasn't planning on it… then the oddest thing happened. Got a call from National Geo…"

"Tell me later… omigosh! This is such a wonderful surprise! Daddy… Estelle's gone to look for Mom… I think she's out on the pool deck with Steve and Dora… they're gonna stroke out!"

"Let's hope not," Bernard commented drily. "How's Spearchucker holding up?"

"Holding his own and doing great… he'll be so pleased!"

"The girl said he was here…"

"They were… he and Pallas went off somewhere together. I'm sure they won't be gone long, though."

Sally was next to worm her way out of the crowd. As soon as she spotted Bernard, her face reflected pleasure and she stretched out both hands toward him. They met in an embrace and kissed. "You came after all. How delightful!"

Next she hugged Robert. "So nice to see you again, Robbie… it's been far too long!" Extending a hand to the woman obviously his wife, whom she'd never met, she winked. "You must be Violet's older sister… you're far too young and pretty to be her mother!"

"I wish!" Rita laughed. "These two are her sisters, Stefana and Lucia. Girls… this is Row's grandmother Sally—Mr. Boo's wife."

"How is it you happened to arrive at the same time?" Sally asked.

"We ran into him in the lounge at Kennedy. We were booked on the same flight. Some coincidence, huh?"

"Really!" _A coincidence engineered by a certain aunt who's gonna get an earful!_ Sally thought, suddenly sobering. "I'm sure Steve'll be glad Robert changed his mind and decided to meet him… once he gets past the shock, that is…"

 **Robbie spoke up then.** "About that… I guess I should've given it some more thought… that my turning up here unexpectedly in the middle of a party might not've been the brightest idea. Boo and I were wondering, on the way from the hotel, if there were some way I could be introduced to… Steve… to my father… privately… or maybe with just Row?"

"Let me think… okay… here's what we'll do…" Sally opened the door nearest. "Rob… you and Boo wait here, in Steve's study. Rita… you and the girls hide in the next room… that's Dora's study. I'll send in Maddy as soon as I find her. Give me five minutes…"

With the 'surprises' sequestered, Sally headed for the pool deck, hoping the senior Rosses and Maddy were still where she'd them. They were, although Rowan wasn't to be seen anywhere. After managing to cut them into a corner out of earshot of others, she briefly apprised them of the news.

Steve's face went white. "He's here… now?"

"Yes… in your study. Waiting for you."

"I don't know… I can't…"

"You can, love," Dora said. "You must!"

"Come with me?"

"No. I'm going with Maddy. I want to meet our new daughter-in-law… and our new granddaughters."

"Then… I'd like Jesse and Rowan to be with me…"

"Jesse's in the kitchen with Violet," Sally said. "I saw him when I went by. Don't know where the kids are…"

They collected Jesse and Violet as they filed their way back through the crowd to the other side of the house. Sally filled him in on the way.

 **At the door to the study,** Steve hung back. Jesse had one hand on the knob and the other exerting pressure against his father's back. "You can do it, Dad. You survived last week… you can do it again."

Then they went in, Jesse stepping around _their_ father to extend a hand and a smile. "Hi. I'm Jesse. Welcome home, brother."

In the adjacent room a joyous reunion was going on between daughter, mother and sisters while Maddy and Sally waited patiently to introduce the new step-mother-in-law. Dora astonished even herself at how calmly she was able to function, making Robert's family feel instantly at home. The girls were smaller replicas of Violet and as self-confident. She could only hope the introductions next door were going as well… but she needn't have worred.

Robert instantly endeared himself to Steve. Looking around the room at the awards and commendations decorating the walls, he remarked that it was no wonder he and Jesse had done so well in life… "It's obvious where we inherited the brains! I've often wondered. My adopted parents were great… but not the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you know what I mean."

In their respective retreats, Steve and Dora both suspected that everything was indeed going to be all right! And when they all emerged to join forces in the corridor, happy faces all around convinced them. Cheers went up as the newest faction was introduced to the gathering.

 **Around three o'clock** Dora beckoned to Jesse and anxiously whispered in his ear. "Where are Rowan and Pallas? Why aren't they here?"

In return she got an enigmatic smile and an evasive answer. "They're on special assignment and will appear shortly. Don't you worry."

A few minutes later, Jesse rapped on a wine glass to get everyone's attention. "If you'd all gather around... Mum, Dad... if you'd please all follow us down to the lower terrace."

Downstairs a bar'd been set up on the terrace. A small service table'd been placed on the flagstones near the flat expanse of grassy lawn that extended thirty feet to the crest of the slope. On it reposed two translucent yellow bags tied with gold ribbon. As flutes of champagne were passed around by the servers, Jesse turned to address the audience.

"We, your numerous and sundry descendants, wish to display our love and respect for all you've done for us throughout our lives and continue to do. Please accept these small tokens of appreciation." He handed his parents each a bag, the contents of which appeared to be cut-up apples, carrots and a lone sugar cube each. Steve and Dora looked at each other in puzzlement. What was this? Gag gifts?

"Now, Dad, Mum... if you'd please concentrate on the drive..." He pointed downhill toward the stables. "And keep watching."

Jesse withdrew a two-way from his pocket and spoke into it. "It's showtime."

"On our way," came the answer. He slipped the two-way back into his pocket and extracted a pocketknife to open the bags.

Dora and Steve did as told, keeping their eyes on the drive. A minute later, two horses appeared in the distance. As they approached, cutting off the paved surface and onto the grass, their features became recognizable: one a few-spot leopard-pattern Appaloosa and the other a bald-faced sorrel sabino Arab, shiny as a new copper coin, with high white stockings. Their bareback riders were Rowan and Pallas. They swept up the hill at a lope and trotted to a stop in front of the elder Rosses. Both youngsters were barefoot and wearing jeans and teeshirts. Each wore a beaded headband to which a single feather'd been affixed—gray osprey for him and blue heron for her.

Steve and Dora stood transfixed, their mouths hanging open. Behind them, applause broke out, but politely restrained in order not to startle the horses. Jesse strode forward to stand between the animals, grasping each one by its hackamore as they had instantly scented the goodies and were straining to get at them.

"This here is Alexander Redux, born and bred on Falling Waters Ranch Cooperative in Montana. And this is Cuivrez le Deuxième-Copper the Second. He comes from the Kenelm Stud near Nantes in the Loire Valley. They're both three years old. I think they're waiting for treats," Jesse added encouragingly.

Steve was the first to move, offering apple and carrot chunks to the spotted horse. "Alex," he murmured. "Exactly like Alex." Then Dora came around with her own tidbit-laden palm extended to the sorrel gelding. "He's perfect. However did you find him?" Tears trickled down her cheeks. Steve struggled to keep his from spilling over.

The older Ross children clustered around.

Jesse continued to talk. "This was Vonda's idea to start with. She sneaked some photographs out of your albums two years ago and made copies, so everyone had something to go by. We visited dozens of breeders before finding exactly what we were looking for on Maddy's family's ranch before we even knew about the connection! Michael and Trini discovered Copper about six months ago in France. Julia handled all the importation paperwork—she's got everything over at the office: Registration papers, passports, paid-up life insurance policies, owner records. Both animals were thoroughly vetted for health status and inoculated before importation. They've already passed quarantine and they've been microchipped and tattooed."

"It's uncanny...the blaze, the stockings, even the belly markings... practically a clone of Copper," Dora marveled, laughing and crying at the same time.

Steve and Dora turned and held hands, facing their extended family. Steve spoke first.

"I... we don't know what to say, except thank you... thank you all. This's been the best present ever!"

"And we love you all... so much," Dora added.

Assorted Ross descendants, looking at each other in amazement at this unanticipated and certainly uncharacteristic statement from the pater familias.

 **There were announcements yet to come…** Jason and Sarah approached and Sarah shyly handed an envelope over to her mother. "This is sort of an advance Christmas present, Mum. You can read it out loud if you wish."

Curious, Dora opened the envelope and read the Christmas card contained therein. "Dear GranSteve and GranDora. Looking forward to seeing you in May. Hugs and Kisses... Jason Steven Ross."

"Does this mean...?" Dora's flew to her mouth.

"Yes, Mum," Sarah beamed. "We had the sonogram done last week. It's definitely a boy."

"But why didn't you tell us?"

"Oh...it was too good a surprise to just drop on you casually," Jason said. "We thought we'd save it for a special occasion. Sarah could hardly contain herself, though." He pointed a finger at Julia and Ian. "You're up."

The second envelope contained another birth announcement… a little after the fact as these babies were already a month old.

"We've been approved as adoptive parents, Mum," Julia said shyly. "Twin boys. We're going to get them next week and we've decided to name them Edward Steven and Ronald Doyle."

Dora felt she was going to faint. Her knee's gone all wobbly and would have hit the floor had Steve not been right there beside her.

Michael and Trini were not to be outdone. "We've also signed up with an agency that specializes in hard-to-place and older children. We don't have any prospects yet but they don't see any problem with getting us approved."

 **It was nearing midnight** when Steve and Dora, both verging on a state of emotional overload, closed their bedroom door behind them and prepared for bed. Pulling on his favorite oversize shirt and boxers, Steve watched Dora exchange the yellow party frock for a silky nightie...one easily discarded, he recalled with a private grin. Long gone were the dreaded flannel granny gowns with a million buttons from neck to ankles that took forever and a day for him to undo with clumsy fingers.

"Don't stare. You know how that embarrasses me."

He came up behind her as she combed out her hair at the mirror and put his arms around her, kissing her on the ear. "Come here, my lovely girl. It's been quite a day, hasn't it?"

She twisted in his arms and wrapped hers around him, laying her head on his chest. "Oh Steve... I'm so happy. Everything's been so wonderful. Could it possibly get any better?" She tilted her head up and kissed him.

"I don't know, love... our treasure chest is overflowing as it is. And, don't forget, we have the rest of our lives to get through." He gently held her away so that he could gaze into her face. "I love you, Dora. Always have, always will. Am I forgiven?"

Dora's face was radiant. "Always and forever."

— **FINIS —**


End file.
